


Gotta Piss Somewhere, Pointdexter

by Rosetta (ARollingStone), Stuffy (HarveyDangerfield)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Bottom Ford, Bottom Stan, M/M, Omorashi, Oral Sex, Public Masturbation, Rimming, Stuffing, Top Stan, Urination, Watersports, top ford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/Rosetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/Stuffy
Summary: Ford has been hiding a secret fetish for more than 50 years, but it finally comes to light. Stanley puts pressure on him until he breaks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written with grvnklestan on tumblr, my spouse <3
> 
> mind the tags theres LOTS of pee in this one

The triumph outweighs the hardships they'd faced, and with the prize in tow (the prize being the single, glass eyeball of the monstrosity they'd been chasing) Standford and his brother are ready to head back to civilization after trekking through the rainforest for days and days.

 

Stanley couldn't be happier--he's well ready to sleep in a bed again, even if he means the bunks on the boat, or a tiny hotel room ashore. Anything is better than swatting mosquitos and horse flies out of his face, and eating what they can find. God, does he miss real food.

  
At the very least, they'd had enough water to last the trip and then some; of course, his brother had complained nearly constantly about Stan's drinking habits. 'You're not drinking enough, Stanley. You're going to get dehydrated.' Always backed by nerd science that Stan could care less about, but damn if he hadn't drunk his weight in water, so now, on their way back to town, he can feel it sloshing heavy and low in his bladder.

 

He'd been drinking so much, in fact, that this last leg of the journey he'd gotten so tired of stopping to take a piss he'd resolved to hold it on the way back and piss when they got into town; but they're not even halfway back and the urge to piss is so brutal he's sweating and panting with just the labor of putting one foot in front of the other, and it doesn't take long for his brother to notice.

 

"Are you in pain?" Ford asks, infuriatingly stopping in his tracks and halting their forward progress as he turns back to face his brother, gripping the straps of his backpack. "You didn't get fire ants up your pant leg did you? I told you to tuck them in, I told you at least four times."

 

"No I--God, no!" Stan grunts, now that they've stopped he feels like there's a bowling ball pressing into his gut. "God--I just gotta--MOVE!"

 

There's no time to explain or stand on ceremony. Hell, Stan doesn't even wait until he's out of range of Ford before he finds a tree, feeling piss already leaking out of the tip of his cock right as he's unzipping his pants in a hurry; then slipping himself out, he aims roughly for the roots of the tree and lets go, the stream so strong that it sounds like heavy rain slamming hard into the ground.

  
As for Stan he leans back, his eyes nearly crossing with the instant and near-orgasmic relief flooding through him as his heavy bladder drains and drains. He moans thickly with the release, like he's just had the best sex of his life and he's not afraid to be vocal about it.

 

"Stan--" Ford cries out, a moment of fear gripping him when his brother charges ahead, but when he hears him unzip and then spies the clear-as-water stream from between Stan's spread legs from behind, hitting the ground like a goddamn fire hose, heat crawls up his neck to his ears, blazing his face red in moments. He ends lamely with a whispered, "Oh."

 

This is far from the first time Stanley has pissed in front of him. Ever since they were children, Stan has never been shy about pissing in front of his brother. He wouldn't even try to be discrete about whipping out his cock to do so, Ford would have to scramble to look away and give him an ounce of privacy-- not that they really needed it.

 

He's suddenly and viscerally reminded of an incident when they were just ten years old, playing on the beach in their trunks. Horsing around, as young boys do, only for Stan to comment that he had to go. Ford had wrinkled his nose and told him to go up the beach to one of the bathrooms, just as Stan was already untying his trunks. Ford scolded him for trying to pee in the ocean, when his brother turned on him to piss on him instead, playfully claiming that he had to "pee somewhere, pointdexter!" Ford had been so overcome with fire in his entire body that all he could do was cry in the sand-- and Stan had been seriously worried he'd taken a joke too far when Ford ran into the ocean to clean it off, but after his apology, they never spoke of it again.

 

But every time Ford sees Stan piss, he thinks about it again. Frankly, he thinks about it sometimes even when he isn't watching Stan piss.

 

Stan, so far unaware of Ford's plight, just stands there letting the stream pound onto the rocks and roots, alleviating himself with utter bliss dripping from his lips.

 

"Agh god that feels good, I thought I was gonna pop a leak--mighta too if I hadn't shoved ya outta the way. What were you sayin' again? Somethin' about fire ants?"   
  
Glancing up, Stanley catches sight of his brother, even as his bladder is __still__  emptying, and he sees just how __red__  his face is. The expression he's wearing too, is somewhere between utterly ashamed and completely turned on. Stanley is very familiar with it, at this stage in their lives.   
  
"What?" He asks thickly.

 

"What?" Ford says, so quickly that it spills from his mouth before Stan even finishes the word. "Nothing! I didn't say anything."

 

He immediately turns his back and opens his water bottle, trying to chase away some of the heat, but he can still hear the splatter of Stan's piss stream hitting the ground. God, how full was his bladder? He feels a twinge between his own thighs as he takes a few frantic gulps from his bottle to try and wet his suddenly dry mouth.

 

"It's hot out here, isn't it?" he comments, too loud, trying to sound casual and conversational.

 

Stan turns around to face him, still pissing, though the stream isn't as powerful as it was. It splashes down just an inch or two away from Ford's feet, droplets hitting the dried mud on his boots and leaving behind wet spots.   
  
"Nothing, huh?" Stan groans, the piss stream is beginning to weaken, but as it shrinks he aims a little higher, nearly getting Ford's shoes this time--and looking not so close, it's clear __Stan__  is onto him because he's got that lopsided, cocky grin and his dick is __jumping__  with interest, which stutters his piss stream.

 

Ford makes a choked sound as he jerks his boot away from the stream, practically leaping into the air to escape his brother's proximity, quickly taking several steps to the side. "Stanley!" he yelps, his tone an attempted scold, but his voice cracks in the middle of the word. "Keep that away from me!"

 

The stream at last dies, and Stan makes an absolutely filthy noise as he squeezes his cock and wrings it out just to get the last few drops off the head; and unlike Ford, who's civilized enough to wipe, Stanley gives his cock a few too many shakes and stuffs it, clearly half hard, back into his pants and zips up.

 

He wipes his nose and grunts at Ford, "Ready to go, Sixer . . . or you got another problem?" Stan's eyes flicker down to his crotch, where he can see just the beginning of a tent in his brother's pants.

 

"I'mfinelet'sgo," Ford says very quickly, turning away from Stan to charge his way back through the rain forest.

 

He very intentionally keeps his head ducked away from Stan if he ever tries drawing near enough to look him in the eye on their walk back, and answers all of his brother's jabs or attempts at conversation with terse one-word responses. He can only hope that Stan buys that it's the heat making his face so red, but honestly he doubts that he does. Still, Ford clings to hope that Stan will stop teasing him and let the subject slide, and Ford can take his secret to his grave, like he always intended to.

 

When they make it back to the motel for the evening, Ford immediately peels off all of his clothes to get in the shower. He's sticky, hot, and the lukewarm water is an absolute godsend on his poor overheated skin. Not to mention, he could really use the privacy to rub one out, despite his cock being chapped from rubbing against his underwear the whole walk back.

 

Likewise, the walk back, Stan had chugged the rest of their water like it was the last of its kind on earth, which had garnered some snarky comments from his brother, but otherwise had gone unchecked. By the time they'd gotten back to the motel, and Ford's in the shower, Stan grabs himself a few couple of bottles of water from the front desk and chugs those too; then he just waits.

 

By the time he feels the urge to piss again, Stanford is still in the shower, so he creeps in, being as sneaky as he can be while his brother is distracted; then carefully, he unzips his pants and pulls out his cock and in one fluid motion, rips the shower curtain aside with a loud screech of the rings on metal and takes aim, spilling his loaded bladder all over Ford's hard, naked abs.

 

The fact that his brother is rock hard and had definitiely been jerking it just proves a point to Stan and as Ford screams in horror and confusion,  the piss stream hitting him dead on, Stan laughs; "I had to piss __somewhere__  Poindexter!"

 

"Stanley!" Ford shouts, and yanks the curtain to try and rip it out of his brother's hand as his voice raises to glass-shattering decibels. The tears well back up in his eyes, unseen among the water already on his face from the showerhead-- though not from shame, or revulsion. He's not sure what the tears are about, but he knows that his cock went from 'hard' to 'could cut diamond' in a nanosecond, and the only saving grace is the fact that with his glasses off, Stan is just a mess of colors arranged in a humanoid shape. "Stop-- stop it! I am not a urinal!"

 

"Yeah? You're not? Is that why you're so hard?" Stan shouts, aiming right for Ford's cock, pissing all over it--the stream is so hot, hotter than the shower water at the very least, and prickles over his cock, dripping down and over his thighs.

 

Ford shrinks against the wall, lifting his thigh up and trying to cover himself with his hands, but then he just feels the stream against his knuckles and fingers. "Stanley, please!" he shouts, curling up on himself under the spray of water and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to will his brother to spare him the agony. He's absolutely certain that he's never blushed so hard in his life, he feels dizzy his face is so red, and he's surprised there's even enough blood left in his body to keep his cock hard--

 

His hand flies over his dick, pressed up against the shower wall, one foot curling off the ground he's clenched up so tight, as he's consumed by the fantasy of his brother coming to piss on him in the shower. His hand makes slick, wet noises as it slaps over his cock, the knuckles of his other hand stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet. He can only imagine what it would feel like for his brother to piss on him again, he only has the vaguest of memories from 50 years ago.

 

The sound of the door opening is Ford's indication that Stan has come in--for real this time--and for a moment he doesn't even say anything, there's just the quiet drop of water against the porcelain and Ford's own pounding heartbeat. Then he hears the wooden toilet seat go up, hitting the ceramic and Stan's voice rumble low, "Hope ya don't mind, Stanford--I've been drinkin' so much watter, it's got me swimmin'. I gotta take a leak."

 

All too real, the sound of his fly unzipping followed by that heavy stream of piss, so powerful it could put a horse to shame, and Stanley sighing openly and roughly as relief washes over him.

 

 _ _Oh my god__ , is all Ford can think, his hand completely still over his cock, where it's stayed motionless since he heard the door open. He'd been so close, so fucking close to coming, and now Stan is here, interrupting his fantasy to actually piss just a couple feet away from him.

 

"It's fine," he finally grits out, hoping his tone of voice sounds at least a little normal. He can't jack as fast as he was a moment ago, but he rubs his thumb in rough circles over the head, pressing his knuckles into his lips to keep from gasping as he thumbs at the slit so hard it makes his knees tremble and his eyes roll back.

 

"Agh god . . ." Stan mutters, the piss stream picks up pace and volume-- Ford can hear it hitting the water like a goddamn waterfall, it's so loud it rivals the sound of the shower. If Stan is aware of is brother's intentions or fantasies it isn't immediately clear, and that's what makes it feel so voyeuristic and filthy.

 

"Figured we could have dinner at that bistro near the motel . . ." Stan stops midsentence to sigh with relief, the stream __still going__ _ _.__  "It looks nice enough. Sound good?"

 

"Sounds good," Ford's voice comes out in a little more of a gasp than he would have liked, but he covers it with a cough as naturally as he can, his balls seizing up between his legs. The sound of Stan's stream is so intense, but even worse are the satisfied sounds he's making as he relaxes and lets go. Ford can barely breathe he's so close, and he chances a few shallow strokes, rubbing his palm over his cockhead and gritting his teeth to try desperately to keep his voice locked inside his chest.

 

"Good." Stan grunts, s _ _till__  pissing, God how much had he drank? "I'm starvin', feels like I haven't eaten in years--probably good for me though, huh Sixer?"

 

The very audible and distinct sound of Stan patting his drum-like belly can be heard, his piss stream finally relenting little by little, but he's still going--Stanley must have chugged most, if not all, of their water supply on the way back and then some.

 

Ford comes so hard he sees stars, and there's a little squeak as his foot slides across the shower floor, his leg spasming and nearly giving out from under him. His hand hits the tile with a soft slap and he sucks his lips between his teeth, biting down and breathing out hard and measured through his nose as thick ropes of cum are washed down the drain.

 

Belatedly, only a few long, lingering seconds after the question was posed, Ford says airily, "Yeah-- yeah, good--" God, so good...

 

Completely oblivious, Stan finishes up his little bathroom break, and cleans himself up--but he spares the toilet flush, so that his brother doesn't get washed in cold water. "I'll be in the room whenever you're ready to go, Stanford."   
  
And he leaves Ford to his suffering.

 

Ford has just enough time to put himself back together and make himself look presentable, dressed in his thinnest heather grey turtleneck to still cover his scars while combating the oppressive heat of the jungle, and he has a hard time meeting Stan's eye as they prepare to disembark.

 

Stan leads the way to the bistro, he'd been the one to spot it after all, and Ford follows mutely behind him, happily allowing Stan to act as his rudder in the crowded streets. The restaurant is beautiful, open-air with a thick canopy of woven leaves overhead acting as a roof, the walls of even the indoor seating area made only of bamboo tied loosely together with braided rope. Fairy lights are draped from the ceiling in dangling strings, and between those and the bountiful candles, the area is kept lit warmly even as the evening begins to darken through the trees outside the deck overlooking the nearby river.

 

"I wouldn't mind coming back here for a proper vacation once we finish our task," Ford comments conversationally as he watches a lazy canoe travel down the river, piloted by a barefoot man with a very long stick and lit from the tip by a candle lantern. "It's absolutely beautiful here."

 

"It's pretty nice." Stanley agrees, watching the same canoe float on by. His gaze returns to his brother a moment later, inwardly he's wondering just how much he's going to have to drink to get to him tonight, because right now he can feel something in the air between them; that given the right opportunity, the correct circumstance, Ford will crack and tell him just what that __boner__  in the jungle had been about.

 

When the waiter arrives, Stan orders a glass of water asks for a pitcher to be brought to the table, under the guise of needing to 'stay hydrated' which he knows Ford can't even begin to argue with, because it had been under his command that Stan had even started this venture; retorting or arguing in any way would just make him look guilty as hell, which in turn would out him and his . . . well, whatever's going on with him.

 

So when the pitcher arrives, Stanley shoots Ford a bit of a smug look as he refills the glass he'd already downed and takes a big swig from it, pulling his lips away at long last, with nearly half of it drained, giving a very relieved sigh, like that glass of water had been the only thing keeping him from keeling over from thirst.

 

"Know what you're gonna order yet? I can't pronounce most of this."

 

Ford snaps back to attention at Stan's words, his menu shooting upright from where it had started to sag as he dumbly watched his brother chug a glass and a half of ice water. "What? Oh-- I was ah-- I was looking at the paratha, honestly-- you can pick all the sides individually, and I've been dying to try the peppered black beans everyone has been talking about here."

 

Looking down at his menu, Stan squints at the words he's trying to read. "Think I'm gonna get the Vada Pav--it's like, a fried potato sandwich--and it comes with three sides. Huh . . . I bet all this stuff is spicy. Good thing I ordered this pitcher of water."   
  
Slapping the table top, Stan gives a rolling belly laugh, which turns a few heads, and makes Ford hunker down behind his menu a little more. When the waiter returns, they put in their orders and Stan leisurely pours himself __another__  glass of water and wastes no time lifting it to his lips.

 

The glass is sweating from the heat of the jungle, ice cubes clinking, melting even as Stan presses his lips against the rim of the glass and takes a nice, long sip. His adams apple, fuzzy with four-day stubble, bobs heavily with each gulp and once a little over half the glass is drained, Stan sets it down with a little sigh and a burp.

 

"Don't... fill up on water before the food even gets here," Ford says, trying to sound chastising and not maybe a little bit hopeful. If it comes out more heated than he meant it to, hopefully it comes across as him being interested in Stanley's stomach being too full-- a kink they have explored thoroughly and in excess.

 

God, he just wants to lean across the table and suck Stan's neck as he drinks, just to feel him swallow against his mouth. He's been drinking so much water that there's practically a constant stream running from his mouth to his bladder-- how long can he even sit here guzzling all that water without needing to go?

 

 _ _Is that what this is? Is he gettin' off on chuggin'? But then why'd he have a stiffy when I was pissin' earlier?__  

 

Stan licks excess moisture from his lips, and leans a heavy forearm on the table, which creaks under his weight just a little as he angles forward a little. "Since when were you afraid of me havin' a full belly, huh Sixer?"

 

Right as he says that, his gut does give a gurgle, either from being so weighty with water, or from hunger. It's hard to tell with Stanley. Either way, he drags a hand along the curve of his tummy, but doesn't linger--however the motion does draw Ford's eye down and he can see that his brother is more than a little __bloated__  from all the water he's been drinking, his body holding onto it thanks to the hot weather.

 

Ford's face heats up as he ducks his head down, clearing his throat, and takes a very sedated sip from his own water. He's actually sweating, a slightly dark spot starting to form in the center of his sweater, and it isn't from the heat, which is starting to ease up as the sun goes down properly.

 

"Oh, you're big," he can't help but whisper as he looks across the table at Stan again, but he goes quiet as the waitress brings over a basket of handmade pita chips, crispy and buttery and soft. He gives her a not of thanks, before looking back across at his brother. "Don't--" he starts, about to tell Stan not to eat too much of the bread, for the sole reason that it might soak up some of the water... but he can't think of a way to justify that, so he just ducks his head again, ruffling a hand through his hair as the flush creeps up to his ears.

 

"Don't what?" It isn't innocent, the way he asks that question and when he leans forward to reach for a handful of chips, his bloated tummy bumps the table, scoots it forward just a few inches, its legs screeching slightly on the wooden floor. He sits back with a sigh, popping one of the pita chips into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully before taking another, unnecessarily long drink from his glass, draining the third, or forth? Ford has lost count.

 

He eats another chip, and watches his brother silently from across the table, an eyebrow lifting slowly, questioning Ford to continue with his protest, and when he doesn't, Stan insists further, wanting an answer as he pours __another__  glass of water. "You know I've got an appetite like a thoroughbred racin' horse. What're you so worried about, huh? Or is somethin' else troublin' ya, Sixer?"

 

Stan gives a watery belch, but instead of sipping the water, he takes another handful of chips, with no regard to whether or not Ford might want some for himself. He chews loudly, obnoxiously. Definitely doing it purpose.

 

"You're making a scene," Ford whispers, his ears burning-- but honestly, he doesn't look too upset by it. He can't seem to lift his eyes higher than Stan's belly, which just keeps slowly filling up with water the more he drinks. He's very nearly drained the entire pitcher, he's going to have to go so bad his eyes are going to be swimming in it-- the thought makes a hard pulse hit him between the thighs and he swallows hard.

 

Their food is finally brought by, and Ford busies himself with filling his bread with the toppings he'd chosen, while doing his best not to pay attention to the fact that Stan had asked for a second pitcher of water-- and when he looks up, sure enough, Stan had completely finished off the first one-- half a gallon, at least.

 

"Stanley," he hisses, he can't help himself. "You-- that's a lot of water."

 

"Well, it's hot." His brother replies in a ssaccharine voice, like a father gently scolding a misguided child. "And you said you didn't want me to get dehydrated, remember? I'm just doing what you asked."

 

Stan notes his food--two big, yeast rolls with a large fried potato in the center of each with chutney and peppers, a side of tzatziki smothered falafel and beans, and a fresh cucumber salad. From the new pitcher, he pours himself another glass of water, unheeding of Ford's prickly demeanor, and he lounges back in his seat, one arm slung over the back of his chair, holding the sweating water glass like a fine cigar; he brings it slowly to his lips and takes a long pull, throat rippling heavily with each __audible__ gulp, and Ford could swear he can hear it hitting Stanley's sloshing gut.

 

"Stanley..." Ford gasps it under his breath, his voice tight and strained in his throat. He licks his lips and sips his own water, wetting his suddenly dry mouth. He doesn't know what to say, he isn't even sure he can say anything, so he just looks down at his food and starts picking it apart to dip into the peppery sauce that comes with it, his entire face burning red hot as the little dark spot in the center of his chest spreads slightly wider.

 

He knows by now when his brother is flustered, Stan can read the signs, even if he won't outright say it--he also knows that all the water is getting to him, and whether that's because it's filling out all the corners of his tummy nicely, or some __other__  reason, he can't be completely sure, but Stan has suspicions he's getting closer to cracking the mystery.

 

 _ _There must be something more to it,__  he thinks as he dives into his food, taking gulps of water between heavy bites of potato, __There must be somethin' he's ashamed of, lookit him he's red as a tomato, and what was that scene about in the forest. He got all flustered when I aimed at him. Does he want me to piss on him?__

 

Realizing he's been quiet for far too long, Stan decides to test the waters, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat as his bladder begins to fill, pressing against his belt. He squirms a little, shifting his shoulders, occasionally flickering his glance up to watch Ford for a heartbeat or two before going back to his food.

 

Ford keeps chancing glances up at his brother when he thinks he isn't looking, but a couple times they do meet eyes and he glances quickly away. He's being foolish, he tells himself. Just lean into it being about Stanley being too full, that's something they've played with many times, it'd be easy to just make it about that. But somehow the shame keeps creeping back in, and he keeps thinking that somehow it's clear on his face or by somehow reading his mind, and Stan will know the real reason he's so flustered.

 

The squirming doesn't go unnoticed, and Ford tries to sound as absolutely innocent as he can when he says, "Do you have to go? All that water must be going right through you."

 

Stan hisses through his teeth, "Yeah, I really gotta piss, but I'm gonna hold it until we get back to the hotel room . . . I don't trust the bathrooms here. The place is nice, but restaurant bathrooms are always a disaster, plus I probably wouldn't fit in the stall, even crammed in there sideways. Ya know how big I am."

 

"Until we get back?" Ford's voice comes out in a hiss. "Stanley, that's not-- you have had almost a gallon of--" he goes quieter as a waitress scoots by, and then leans in. Honestly, he's barely touched his own food, he's been so preoccupied with watching Stan slug down water like he's dying of thirst. "You have had a little over half a gallon of water," he starts again in a rough whisper. "If you try to hold that all the way back to the motel, you-- your body isn't designed to-- you will be in extreme discomfort--"

 

"You been payin' attention to how much I've been drinkin', Sixer?" Stan's grin is devlish as he asks this, and continues to sip from that glass of water, obviously feeling well full now, and to display that fact, he grabs his gut by the soft underside and gives it a little wiggle. Ford can __hear__  it slosh with all the water inside. Luckily, the waiter is gone, and there's no one else eating the deck, so that's a private show for Ford and Ford alone.

 

"Oh my god," Ford ducks his head and focuses his attention solely back on his food, though his face is on fire and he knows Stan can see the dark flush discoloring his cheeks and ears, all the way down his neck and disappearing into his sweater.

 

His own food is spicy, which has him slugging at his own water like it's a race, and though he's only had a glass himself, he doesn't really want to take any more from the jug... just because he wants to see if Stan will finish it. His belly is so heavy in his lap that Ford can see the belt straining around his hips to contain it, and Ford squirms in his seat.

 

"Nobody is out here," he mutters without looking up after Stan has finished half his sandwich, dropping heavy bites down into his water-inflated stomach. "You could undo your belt."

 

A pulse between Stan's legs erupts when Ford caves in, God just getting him to break his resolve sometimes is a thrill in and of itself. All that water is sitting low in his guts now, working its way through and it's just a matter of time before he needs to empty his bladder--judging by the mild huffing and puffing he's doing, he already has to.

 

There's an urgency in stomach that he can't deny, a tingling that fills his prick and threatens to leak out the swelling tip--he's not even trying to hide the stiffy he's getting, but it's inevitable really. Stan's always gotten at least half-hard when the urge to piss gets strong enough, it's the sole reason he still gets morning wood in his 60's.

 

"You're right, there's no one here." He drains the rest of the glass and sets it down with a low burp that has to fight through all the water just to come up, so it ends on a decidedly sick, wet note. On top of all that water, he's also almost done with one of those sandwiches.   
  
Sitting back a little further, Stan reaches under the weight of his burgeoning belly and releases the clasp of his belt that gives such an audible pop it echos off the trees surrounding the restaurant and sounds like someone's fired a small-caliber gun. His stomach instantly relaxes, sagging down heavy and soft in his lap, molding to his thighs like a water balloon.

 

"Good call, Sixer." He praises, shooting Ford a grin and a fingergun before he reaches over and refills the glass again--hell if they weren't in the midst of a public place, Stan might very well resort to chugging out of the pitcher like an animal. There seems to be no depths he won't sink to just to get his brother riled up.

 

Ford exhales hot and slow, feeling a bit dizzy as he watches Stan sit back in his seat and let his stomach hang forward into his lap. Without the belt holding the lowest curve in, it can sag to its full heft, and the curve becomes even more pronounced.

 

He's not even speaking anymore as he picks at his food. The waitress comes by to ask if they need anything else, and Stan makes a coy remark about already eating too much that he punctuates with a slap to his gut. The waitress laughs but Ford ducks his head down when his ears burn hotter at the gurgle that answers Stan's heavy thwack.

 

When they're alone on the balcony again he waits to make certain that the waitress is gone before he reaches under the table with one hand, careful to manipulate the table cloth so it lays across his lap, and then among the gentle patter of rain over the canopy overhead and the soft creaking and chittering of the jungle's nocturnal brood coming out for the night, Stan hears the distinct sound of Ford's pants button popping, and his zipper being pulled slowly down as his brother makes dead eye contact with him.

 

A hot chill runs up the length of Stan's spine, and his cock jerks to life between his legs. Thankfully, the pants he's wearing are fit rather snug, so it doesn't have much room to spread and grow, so it won't be noticed too much unless somone's looking hard--provided that is, that his gut isn't just blocking it by the time they leave.

 

"Really? Right here, huh?" Stan licks water droplets off his lips, and takes a deep breath, resting one hand on his gut as he lifts the glass for another swig, but he pauses. "And you say I have no self control."   
  
And just to tease him, Stan tosses back the nearly-full glass of water, but this time he doesn't stop at a few gulps. No, he swallows thick, his throat rippling, leaned so far back in his chair it creaks under his weight and he drinks and drinks, his belly giving a long, loud gurgle as he pours another eight ounces of water down his gullet. When the glass is drained, Stan pulls it away with a pained groan and a loud burp, and pats his belly openly.

 

"Agh Sixer . . . you were right." He sets the glass down hard on the table, reaches for the pitcher to refill it and groans, "I really gotta piss."

 

Ford's eyes keep flicking to the archways leading to the inside portion of the restaurant, just to make sure he won't be snuck up on with his cock out under the table at a restaurant. He licks his lips as he threads his length through the slit in his briefs and thumbs at the already-wet tip. The only indication at all that he's touched himself is the slight pinch in his eyes and the way his nostrils flare.

 

He utters only one low sentence, gritted out between his teeth, "Finish the pitcher."

 

Stan swallows thickly, and lifts the next glass, chugging it down like the last--there's a little less than half the pitcher left, and he knows he can take it, but it's going to have to be in one shot if he's going to do it without chickening out. So, Stan takes a quick glance around them, making sure no one's watching, and pulls the pitcher over.

 

It's a heavy glass thing, but Stan's nothing if not strong, so he lifts it easily with one hand, cradling it under the base with the other, sets his lips against one side and tips it back.

 

He chugs deep from the glass jug, leaning back in his seat, quite the spectacle to anyone who chances to look at him, though no one does. Ford can __hear__  him panting through his nose as water pours down his throat in a steady stream, and he stops only to gasp wetly on occasion, just to give himself a minute to breathe.

 

Stanford can __swear__  he can see Stanley's gut swelling with each gulp, getting bigger and heavier, pressing heavy and pliant against his thighs, taking up all the space he'd freed with the pop of his belt; and Stanley is sweating now, breathing hard, the urge to piss so overwhelming he actually feels a few drops slip out of the tip of his hard cock and as he drinks he's forced to knock his knees together and clench his lower belly just to keep from pissing himself right there in the restaurant.

 

When the jug is drained, Stan pulls it away and gives a series of wet, unsatisfying burps, his belly full of air and water, absolutely rock hard now. His shirt is straining to contain him, and he can feel air on just the little stripe of skin showing where the hem has ridden up.

 

"Oh god." Stan's eyes go wide and he clenchs his knees together, wriggling in his seat. "Oh jeeze, I really gotta piss . . ."

 

Ford glances again at the restaurant. The thrill of voyeurism tickles the back of his neck and clenches deep in his stomach, and his jaw flexes with the effort to clench his teeth hard enough not to make a sound. He's stroking himself with the smallest of tugs, not wanting to risk drawing any attention to what he's doing under the table, and paying special attention to the tip of his cock, nudging himself towards release.

 

"If you don't go before we leave you might wet your jeans," Ford finally says, his voice shaking and small in his throat as he says it, gasping on the word 'wet' as it sticks behind his tongue. His hips jerk shallowly, just once, and then he glances once more at the restaurant before leaning back and looking down at the floor. Sure enough, the deck they're out on is made of slats of wood spaced apart by about a quarter inch each, not a wide enough gap for a chair or table leg to slip into and fall, but made just wide enough for rainwater to drip down through so it doesn't flood the entire building if it rains particularly hard.

 

A hot throb of pleasure stabs Ford in the guts as he allows the half-thought that was forming in his mind to take root and unfurl from his mouth without thinking. "Look at the floor," he whispers. "Move the cloth over your lap, and go... it'll fall through the slats and no one will know."

 

Stan hardly has a minute to think about it,  his bladder is commanding to be emptied, and he looks down through the slats and realizes there's nothing but brush and trees under them, it'll easily hide the stream. His nostrils flare as he considers, but he doesn't sit in silence for long.

 

"God, right here Stanford?" Swallowing thickly, he thinks about the fact that Ford is still touching himself under the table, and tries to draw conclusions, a few loose threads tying together at last, but Stan doesn't question it too much. Shifting his chair toward the table, he lifts the tablecloth over his lap and Ford can hear him unzipping.

 

"Keep an eyes out." Stan grumbles, as much a command as he can give, compromised as he is, then the sound of his stream slapping between the slats hits Ford's ears; and Stan melts in his chair as he finds release, moaning audibly, his face going completely slack.

 

And __God__  that stream is so strong, like a fire hose, loudly hitting the ground under the balcony, bouncing off of leaves, watering the earth below. Stan's breath stutters as the release of his bladder triggers something else--an orgasm of sorts, but it's small and slight, shaking through him in gentle waves, but there's no question for Ford, who's seen his brother cum countless times, he knows his tells.   
  
A stifled growl dies in Stan's chest as his cock twitches with pleasure, and piss flows out of him like a river.

 

Ford glances back at the restaurant-- still no sign of movement. Half of him wants someone to come out, just so he can warn Stan and then watch him suffer to clench his muscles and stop the stream in his tracks. He can feel some of the splatter hit his boots and Ford's breathing picks up as he watches the archway leading to the building with hazy eyes just to make sure nobody's coming as he moves his hand faster, in long enough strokes that there's no hiding what he's doing under the table.

 

With a hard exhale through his nose, he covers his mouth with his other hand and comes with a soft whimper, his thighs shaking and his hips grinding as he strokes himself through it. His eyes water with the effort to keep them open, and his entire face goes cherry red as his cum splatters on the floor, washed away by Stan's piss.

 

It's impossible for Stan to cum right now, piss is roaring out of him like a thunderstorm and that relief of itself is delicious, but hearing and __seeing__  his brother come apart sends another shockwave of pleasure through his body that's so intense it feels orgasmic in its way. When his stream has drained, and the last dregs of crystal-clear urine leave his body, Stan clenches his pelvic floor to rid himself of the last few drops, but only precome dribbles heavily from the head of his cock.

 

This time, he wipes himself with the kerchief in his pocket, and stuffs himself, half hard, back into his jeans and zips himself back up, sitting back in his seat with a puff of air.

 

Ford has just enough time to do so as well before their waitress seems to rematerialize once more to ask how the meal is going. Ford doesn't look up for the rest of their meal, his eyes focused hard on his plate, and he doesn't say a word.

 

When they pay their bill, Ford is very quick to leave the restaurant first, his brother practically waddling behind him to keep up, his belly still sloshing and full of the gallon of water he drank, currently soaking into and inflating the heavy amount of carbs and starch he'd consumed. Ford walks too quickly, but he's pretty sure he'd absolutely die if he had to walk at Stan's pace, so he arrives at the motel room nearly a minute before Stan does, and is already peeling off his sticky turtleneck as soon as he's inside, without even bothering to close the door.

 

He's panting slightly, trembling with excitement over the complete filth of what just happened. He can't believe his brother just pissed on the floor in a public restaurant-- he can't believe he encouraged it-- no, **_**_requested_**_** it.

 

Stan finally makes it back, and he's breathless, winded, his back arched like a pregnant woman with one hand to his lower back for support. He waddles inside and sits down on the bed with a heavy sigh, his gut absolutely __heaving__  and sagging heavy between his spread legs.

 

"You're flustered." Stan rumbles, dragging his hand across the bloated expanse of his tummy, trying to sooth the cramps. He licks his lips and glances up at Ford, "You wanna . . . relieve some of that tension?"

 

Ford turns around and gives Stan a half-lidded look, swallowing thickly and licking his lips as his gaze drops from his brother's face to his full belly, and he immediately nods. "Yes," he grits out, eyes flicking to the unlocked door before deciding it might actually be more thrilling to leave it unlocked. Not like anyone would just barge into their motel room anyway, but-- just the fact that they __could__ if they were so inclined is very exciting.

 

"Come here." Stan snaps his fingers, and points to the swatch of floor in front of him. "Get on your knees--I'm gonna need a rub down before we do anything, I'm crampin'."

 

Ford practically throws himself to the ground in his haste to obey, his knees hitting the carpet with a soft thump and his hand already working under Stan's heavy gut to undo his belt a second time. He opens his pants and rucks his shirt up over his belly to his chest, immediately moaning in relief at being able to touch his brother. His hands roam in wide circles, stroking over his bloated stomach as he kneels up to kiss and nuzzle into his neck with an appreciative moan.

 

"I can't believe you did that," Ford gasps, sinking his teeth into the side of Stan's neck and sucking briefly as his hands grope the bottom of his heavy gut and lift, just to feel its heft.

 

Stan grumbles softly, his hand going to Ford's waist, carefully working down his sides, feeling the hard lines of his hips, one hand dipping down to undo his belt and the fly of his slacks before slipping in and groping him openly, and with purpose.

 

"Did that turn ya on?" Nuzzling affectionately into Ford's hair, there's no malice to his question, just genuine curiosity and perhaps a little hopefulness.

 

His gut is heavy in Ford's hands, firm but somehow soft, gurgling and sloshing audibly as his brother kneads him like a contented kitten. Sure he's been stuffed before, but they've never experimented with liquid in this way, a first time for a lot of things, this trip.

 

Ford bites his lip, afraid to answer truthfully. He nuzzles into Stan's neck and humps shallowly against his big palm, groaning softly. "You're so... __disgusting__ ," he says instead, with arousal darkening his words and making them fall heavily from his tongue.

 

"Whaddid you call me?" Stan chuckles, squeezing Ford a little harder, though it's all in good fun. He isn't sure if he should just let sleeping dogs lie, so he's just quiet for a moment at he mulls it over, Ford's hands roaming over his belly, Stan's fingers molding his cock and balls, encouraging the thick shaft to harden.

 

"Ya know if there was somethin' ya wanted to tell me . . ." Stan grumbles against his ear. " . . . I wouldn't judge."

 

"I want you to fuck me unconscious," Ford covers quickly, groping Stan's belly and tugging him forward, grinding his hips incessantly against his palm. "I want to feel this heavy gut crush me into the bed."

 

Stan can feel he's keeping something from him, whether he's ashamed or just embarrassed, he knows Stanford too well to take that at face value; if there weren't something more, he wouldn't have encouraged him to piss in the restaurant, and he certainly wouldn't have jerked off while Stan had done it; Stan also knows that right now isn't the moment to push it, he'll have to work his brother up a bit to get him to open up, that's just how he works, but he'll come apart in Stan's hands.   
  
"Need to get ya ready." Stan whispers, softer than he might normally be, his brother's weird mood affecting him a little. With his shirt still rucked up, and his pants undone, Stanley sits back and considers a moment before kicking off his shoes and lying back on the bed. "C'mere, I wanna eat ya out."

 

At his command, Ford moves, pulling his clothes off the rest of the way, and in no time he slings his leg over Stan's head and is situated there, above his mouth, facing out toward Stan's robust gut; and Stanley parts his ass with both hands, exposing his hole to him for a moment. Ford is always so clean,  so as ever it's a pleasure to put his tongue into that space and roll it against the firm ring of muscles, easing some of the tension there with the slake of his slick organ.

 

"Oh god," Ford immediately doubles over and hugs Stan's belly like a pillow with both arms, pleasure shooting up into his stomach from the contact. His arms tense and tighten around his brother's gut and he ruts back shallowly against his mouth as he kisses hungrily at the curve of Stan's stomach.

 

"You're so full," he whispers hotly, grabbing Stan's hard belly on both sides and wobbling it from side to side just to listen to it slosh and gurgle, bubbling like a witchy cauldron under Ford's playful shaking. He squeezes the sides together, molding his tummy upwards and then releases it so it bounces back into shape, and then immediately grinds his face into the soft fat again when Stan bites his cheek in retaliation.

 

Ford's compliments hit all the right notes for Stan--hands on his tummy send hot chills across his skin, his cock rising eagerly out of the open fly of his pants, tenting out his briefs. Stan grips his brother firmly by the hips, and sinks his tongue against that ring of muscle, urging his body to open. He can already feel Ford relaxing around his probing mouth, and while Ford's leaned out over his body, Stan kneads his ass between rough fingers, practically eating him alive.

 

"Oh my god," Ford moans wetly against Stan's rumbly gut, rocking his hips back against his brother's face with soft, panting groans. He hugs his arms around Stan's belly, but he can't quite reach his cock with his mouth with so much gut in the way, not without squishing him in a way that wouldn't be comfortable, so he just closes his hands around Stan's tent, groping him through his boxers. With one hand he strokes up and down the length, and with the other he cups and massages his balls, his movements uneven and unsteady with pleasure.

 

Stan's voice thrums against his hole as Ford presses against his belly. It sloshes, conforming to him like a waterbed in its way, noisy with all the water he's drunk in the past hour, and as Ford's hands close around his clothed cock, Stanley bucks up into his touch, doubling down on the stroke of his tongue, which has loosened him enough that he can slip it inside, and glide the broad organ against the inner walls.

 

"Oh GOD, __Stanley__ ," Ford's words are muffled, but still clear enough to be heard as he crushes his face against Stan's gut. His rim clenches and tightens around his brother's thick tongue, and he humps back against his mouth without shame or thought of moderation. He needs it all, and he needs it right now.

 

His hands clench slightly too tight around Stan's cock, desperate and hungry and thoughtless as he rides out the unbearable pleasure of his brother's tongue crammed as far up his ass as it can reach, his teeth scraping against the muscle, pressing toothy indents into his skin. "Stanley!" he cries again, his cock twitching and leaking against his brother's collarbone.

 

Stan gropes the dip of Ford's hips, and he drags him back bodily, opening his mouth as wide as he can to slip his tongue to its lowest depth; the slick drag of it over his insides feels like heaven, but even so his tongue isn't long enough, nor equipped to massage his prostate. However, that doesn't seem to deter Ford from thrusting back against him, clearly enjoying it.

 

It's all Ford can do to just to hold on to Stan's gut for dear life, licked apart as he is. His thighs quiver around his brother's shoulders and his hips twitch and tremble, trying instinctively to get away from the onslaught of pleasure just from how completely overwhelming it is-- but whenever he tries to arch up, Stan just drags him back down by those massive paws around his hips, yanking him back down against his face.

 

"Stanely--" he moans, panting against the underside of his belly as he grinds his forehead against it. "Oh my god Stanley you ha-- ** _ ** _AAhhh_**_** \--aave to stop, you're going to make me come before you get inside me--"

 

Head falling back against the pillow, Stan lays there and pants for a moment, his mouth tasting so heavily of Ford that it makes him hungry for more; but he knows when his brother's had enough, and equally, he knows when he's __ready__  and he's there now, his hole loose and relaxed, ready for a pounding.

 

Stanley helps him down, eases Ford onto his tummy and hefts himself up to slide in behind him, and it doesn't take Ford but a moment to assume the position, begging for it with his body, ass in the air, his heavy cock leaking onto the motel bedspread.

  
"Ya got me all worked up squirmin' around like that, Sixer. I hope you're ready 'cuz I've got a big one for ya tonight." Hefting his cock in one hand, Stan presses the blunt head against Ford's hole, and it flutters open just for him, precome dribbling right into him. Bracing himself against Ford's hip, Stanley glides in, a huff of air leaving him as he's engulfed by those soft walls, and for the nth time, he's overwhelmed by the feeling of coming home after a long journey. Being inside of Ford feels __right__ , like nothing else in the world does.

 

Slotted inside of him, Stan lets his hips move in time with the roll of Ford's--and God his belly is so heavy and hot, sitting against the small of Stanford's back. It's weightier than usual, bearing down on him like a tidal wave, so full of wall the water he'd consumed at dinner. The urge to piss lingers in the pit of Stan's belly, but he ignores it pointedly, choosing instead to focus on pounding Ford into the mattress.

 

"Oh my god," Ford's voice is breathy and pitched as he moans into the bedspread, his toes curling as he grinds his face into the blankets. The pressure, as always, of Stanley bottoming out inside him has his eyes rolling back and it feels hard just to take in a full breath, he's so overwhelmed by the fullness of it.

 

He yanks so hard on the covers that the blankets snap out of where they'd been tucked in, twisted up in his fists as he bounces with Stan's thrusts. Each one punches the air out of his lungs and the sense out of his brain, he can't even yell his pleasure at this angle because he can't take in a proper breath, and the dizzying weight of Stan bearing down on him combined with the weak trickle of oxygen he manages to suck in has him out of his mind.

 

All he can do is wheeze and whimper in pleasure, his ass hungrily flexing around his brother's length every time it slams home, tears of pleasure and relief filling his eyes as his insides are superheated by the relentless friction of Stan's pounding cock.

 

"How d'ya manage to feel this good every . . . single time. Fuck me runnin'." Stan lets a hand trail down Ford's back, holding him firm in position, as if he needed to. Every thrust home has Ford breathing out with just the effort of taking him, his body running on instinct, rippling back against Stan every time he's buried to the hilt.

 

Were Stan capable, he might lean forward and grab one of those convulsing arms, but he's too big to do that, his belly taking up too much space between them for Stan to lean in that far. He'll just have to settle for crushing the life out of him with his girth for now.

 

Ford is already so close, he can feel the pit of his stomach clenching up frantically every time Stan's thick cock drags past his prostate, every throat-deep jab milking another clear dribble out of his cock, joining the puddle forming on the blanket between his legs.

 

"Stan-- Stanley--" he wheezes, his red face grinding into the bed as he throws a hand behind him desperately, searching for something to grab, looking for Stan's wrist, his hip, his hand, something to hold onto as his brother pounds the life and breath out of him.

 

Stan grabs his hand, holding it tight in his, using the leverage to pound into him harder, and as his climax climbs, and that familiar heat pulses low in his belly, the urgency and need to relieve himself shoots higher, making him pant, his hips jittering.

 

"Agh God Stanford, I gotta piss . . ." he wheezes breathlessly. "Think if I just . . . pissed inside of you it'd hurt anything? I really gotta go."

 

Ford's eyes bulge open when Stan says that, but before he can get a word out, just the __thought__ of Stan following through with that-- threat? promise? --he comes like a hurricane, screaming into the blankets and rutting back hard to meet Stan's thrusts, wailing and sobbing as his voice comes back to him full force, and he grips Stan's hand like he's fixing to break his fingers right off.

 

Stan cums too, with the force of his brother's body wringing him for all he's worth, and he very nearly __does__  piss, the only thing stopping him is how hard he is. They orgasm in unison, Stan hunching over him, fucking with short but deep thrusts, pinning Ford's quaking body under the weight of his burgeoning gut, even as his jizz bubbles up the sides and oozes out of Ford's hole to dribble down his thighs.

 

If he'd known that this got him off, they might have done it sooner--all the pieces are falling into place. The whole incident in the forest, then at the restaurant. It adds up, but damn if Stan isn't too tired to think about it too hard right now.

 

Ford quickly squirms away as soon as Stan's orgasm subsides, leaking on the covers and curling up on his side as the panic climbs in his throat. "Go to the __bathroom__ , Stanley," he gasps out, his voice breathy and high-pitched and rough around the edges, his entire face on fire as for a moment, he fears that Stan is actually about to unload on him and piss all over him right on the bed. "You're-- that's-- just go--"

 

"I'm goin' . . ." Stan mutters, hefting himself off the bed and heading into the bathroom--he doesn't bother to close the door, he just lifts the seat and lets loose, that stream loud from the adjoining room and it's enough to make Ford's cock twitch despite having just unloaded his soul into the bedsheets.

 

Ford has cleaned himself up and is hiding under the covers by the time Stan returns, curled up and almost defensive in his posture. He doesn't look like he's in any mood to talk about what just happened, so Stan lets sleeping dogs lie-- or sleeping Fords, in this case --and just slings an arm over his waist to snuggle up behind him, his stomach still bubbling away.


	2. Chapter 2

Come morning, Stan has to piss so bad that he has to physically waddle into the bathroom and groans like a buffalo as he lets loose in the shower, physically holding his cock down away from his face because the metric gallon of piss that's inflated his bladder overnight has him so hard he would piss in his own face without the guiding hand. Ford guiltily listens to him jerk off in the shower as he packs up their belongings, and does his best to hide how red-faced he is as they disembark for the day, leaving a tip on the mattress to apologize to the cleaning lady for the mess they made of the bed.

 

Back on the Stan O' War with their prize in tow, ready to bring it back to the shaman who had commissioned them to collect it just a couple days ride down the coast, Ford is deep in thought as he stands at the edge of the boat, watching the wide ocean rush wildly by.

 

On course without a care in the world, Stan slips away from his post for the time, and comes up behind Ford, looping arms around his waist and the two of them just stand there looking out over the calm water, listening as the boat slices clean through it like a knife through butter. Stan's mouth falls hot and heavy against his ear, and he kisses him there, tickling with his hot breath, hands pawing heavily against his chest and belly.

 

"I wanna talk to you about last night--c'mon Sixer, I know all that piss talk got ya off." He bites his earlobe again. "Why d'ya feel like ya gotta be ashamed of it, huh? I'm not, why should you be? The minute I talked about needin' to piss, you came apart at the seams, and that whole incident at the restaurant. It's so obvious, ya don't gotta hide it."

 

What had started as a soft moment bleeding into warm sensuality, immediately takes a hot, guilty nosedive when Stan starts growling in his ear. Squirming around to face him was a mistake, because now he finds himself trapped against the side of the boat with Stan's hands gripping the bannister on either side of his hips, and as he ducks his head to the side he can feel the color bleeding into his face.

 

"I'm-- I'm not-- that isn't-- that's absurd--" he attempts weakly, his heart rate immediately rising. "It didn't get me off, I'm not-- not into-- that would be-- I'm not."

 

Stan smashes him against the railing with the girth of his gut--even empty, it's weighty against him. Trapping him there, between his belly and his arms, Stan dips his head and grumbles into his ear, "It'd be __what?__ *Gross? What if I said I was into it too, huh? What wouldja do then, Sixer? High time ya stopped runnin' from it, and just accept it."

 

Ford's stomach clenches up so tight that Stan can feel it. "You... are?" Ford asks breathlessly. He suddenly can't get enough oxygen to his brain, it's all occupied with the task of carrying his blood south in a heavy, hot drop. "You aren't just teasing me, are you? I swear if this is a joke--"

 

"A joke? You're so clueless sometimes, ya know that?" Stan grabs him by the hips and pulls him tighter against him, just so he can feel the growing tent in Ford's pants.

 

"You're turned on just __talkin'__ about it. When I caught ya starin' the other day when I was pissin', I knew then that somethin' was up . . . and I'm not gonna lie to ya, Sixer--I chugged all that water at the restaurant to get a rise outta you, just to see what you'd do. And God, when ya suggested I piss right there in the middle of dinner, I was comin' apart at the seams, just watchin' ya get off over it right there at the table." 

He leans in and kisses his neck, "I'm not lyin' . . . I wanna do this with ya. C'mon."

 

Ford leans back against the railing on his elbows, panting hard as Stan tugs his hips in hard enough that his cock grinds against his brother's thigh. His eyes go half-hooded and hazy, and a tremble starts up in one of his legs as pleasure fills his belly with a hot, heavy plunge.

 

"Okay..." he says dumbly, panting hard into the open air. "God... Stanley-- yes, please. Please."

 

"I was hopin' you'd say that." Stan grumbles, and he finally relents, giving Ford room to breathe, stepping away but even so his absence is felt in the way the sea breeze hits Stanford bodily and reminds him of where and when they are. "And just 'cuz I was so confident, I went ahead and bought some extra supplies while we were ashore and snuck 'em on the boat--that way we don't dip into our water supply while we're out here."

 

"Stanley," Ford hisses chastisingly, ducking his chin in towards his chest as his ears burn hotter. "You're filthy..." he doesn't bother mentioning that they're docking in just a couple days... he's enchanted by the fact that Stan brought extra water aboard just to toy with him. "Are you going to... now?" he can't even bring himself to use his words to describe what's about to happen, he's so out of his mind.

 

"Sure. We can keep an eye on the course, but she's steady for now." Stan licks his lips and takes Ford in, red faced, hopeful. Despite his age, he looks like that geeky little brother he remembers from all those years ago, eager to explore and be touched. In a way, all those years in the Otherworld starved him of affection, and Stan's eager to give all to him at the drop of a hat.

 

He disappears and returns a short while later with a large jug of water. There's well enough there for him to get big and bloated, and of course to fill his bladder out nice and full. Finding Ford manning the controls, Stan enters and uncaps the jug and slugs back a deep draw that has his throat bobbing, and he only pulls it away to take a breath.

 

"You wanna go out on the deck?" He asks his brother, leaning against the doorframe.

 

Ford feels very suddenly light-headed, and his mouth dries up like a sand trap as he watches Stan drink directly from a gallon jug of water. He flicks the autopilot on and locks the wheel in place, and turns to put his back against it as he looks across the cabin at Stan.

 

"Not yet," he licks his lips, that hot prickle settling low in his belly again. "I want you to drink the whole thing first. Come in, sit down... let me sit on your lap. I want to feel you fill up."

 

Stan takes a seat on the bridge with Ford, and invites him down onto his lap. It's not the most comfortable of places, but it'll do for their purposes. Once Ford is stradling him, Stan rests a hand at the small of his back, and hefts the jug to his lips again and drinks deeply; water trickles in rivulets down his stubbled chin, dropping onto his white shirt and making it sheer in spots, showing his fuzzy chest. He pulls the jug back with a wet burp, and looks up at Ford, a genuinely soft smile tugging at his lips.

 

"Glad ya caved in . . . ya know ya never have to be ashamed of anything around me, Stanford."

 

Ford is already panting and squirming in Stan's lap, but when he speaks he looks shyly away. "This is... something I've been hiding for a really long time," he admits in a low voice. "A __really__ long time. Do you remember that day on the beach... we were nine or ten years old. You urinated on me. You were just trying to tease me..."

 

Stan looks up at the ceiling, squinting like he's trying to make something out, and then he gives a big laugh that shakes his belly, "How could I forget? Ya ran into the ocean and bawled your eyes out--really? Was that when it started? Ya seemed so upset."

 

Ford frowns, feeling his face heat even hotter as he grips Stan's shirt at his shoulders. "I was upset because I couldn't figure out what I was feeling. I've been touching myself to the memory for... decades now. Fifty years? I __started__ touching myself because of that. The first time I played with myself was because I felt so funny thinking about it."

 

"Really?" Stan growls, intrigued and turned on all at once. "You've been keepin' that secret all this time, huh?" He takes another long drink, already having drained a quarter of the jug, his belly's feeling a little sloshy, but it's nothing noticeable yet. "Even when you were in the Otherworld?"

 

"Yes," Ford moans, lifting Stan's belly to rest on his thighs. "God... yes. Especially there. It was the only thing that brought me relief sometimes. Remembering you... remembering us, carefree. When I had the freedom to spend time being confused about something as trivial as my sexuality... I'd take a moment where I could, curled up on my side somewhere private with my hand down my pants like a teenager..." he licks his lips. "Keep drinking, Stanley."

 

Actually flustering at that, Stan's ears dust pink, but he lifts the jug nonetheless and seals his mouth around the neck. For maximum efficiency, he holds the jug straight up from his face, the weight of the water forcing itself down his throat, and then it's just a matter of relaxing his throat and letting it pour down in a straight line to his stomach.

 

The jug glugs loudly as airbubbles form and are dragged down in the stream, and Stanley swallows it all, chugging until his face turns a deeper shade of cherry red, and it's only when he absolutely cannot got without breath that he finally pulls the jug away, panting like he's just run a mile dash in seconds.

 

His belly's bloated now, straining slightly at the buttons of his pea coat, and when he sighs, those buttons creak under the weight of his gut; it presses and conforms to Ford's body, so heavy against him, gurgling loudly in protest.

 

Ford moans out loud as he watches Stan pour water into his mouth, draining it down into his stomach like a faucet, and he feels his belly swell out against him as it drains down from the jug into his body. With shaking hands, he undoes Stan's buttons, and they each pop apart in a line with barely a whisper of pressure applied to each one.

 

"Oh my god, Stanley," he groans, thighs clenching around his hips and shaking as his hands roam over his heavy gut. There's a little less than half of the jug left now, and the larger Stan's stomach swells, the larger too does Ford's cock. "I didn't even have the imagination to think of something like this when I was gone... I probably would have been touching myself a lot more often if I did."

 

Stan watches him knead his belly with half-lidded eyes, it's always a pleasure to be the object of Ford's desires, and having his stomach touched so reverently somehow boosts his ego, makes him feel a little better about being old and fat.

 

He sighs anew, belly swelling up against Ford, freed now from his pea coat, the white tee under it is stretched across his gut, and soon enough it'll be riding up the bottom. A wet, unsatisfying burp leaves him and before he lifts the jug again, Stan gazes up at Ford, a soft smile crossing his features, "I'm glad we can do it together, now."

 

There's a certain sentimentality behind that statement, the corner of Stan's eyes wrinkling and he and Ford share a quick, cool-mouthed kiss right before he hefts up the jug and repeats the process.

 

This time, as he chugs water down into his gut, Ford watches it visibly swell. Every couple of pulls it seems to balloon out, pressing harder against Stanford's lap, the skin growing tight and heavy under his shirt, which is now visibly straining to contain him. This time, when Stanley needs a breath, he doesn't even pull the jug away, he plugs it with his lips and takes a few heaving breaths through his nose, and goes right back to chugging.

  
He drinks like a man who's been stranded in the desert for weeks and weeks. The __noises__  he makes, little grunts and groans low in his throat, clear evidence of his struggle and the more he drains from the jug, the further back he leans in the seat, which creaks under his growing weight.

 

Stanley takes one more brief break to gasp for air, but he doesn't pause for long, chugging down the rest of the gallon with such gusto that the plastic jug caves in on itself as he sucks hard, draining it of every last drop; and when it's gone he pulls it away with a loud burp and caps the jug, tossing it aside.   
  
His belly is so big and bloated it sits like a rock between them, filled so full of liquid that he's gasping for air and groaning with every other breath, his shirt ridden up nearly to his belly button, bubbling and churning as it tries to make sense of what to do with all of the water inside of him.

 

"Ah jeeze . . ." Stan runs his fingers over his stomach, feeling how drum-tight it is. "Mighta . . . showed off a little. Oof."

 

Ford is absolutely witless in Stan's lap, struck absolutely dumb by the sight of Stan sucking down water like he would have died without it. He's hard as rock under his gut, pressing up into the soft underside and beside himself with lust. He shakes in his lap, panting so hard it's like he drank the jug, and he moans openly as he gropes and massages the sides of Stan's heavy gut.

 

He can't help himself, he grips the fat of the underside and gives Stan's belly a healthy shake. Immediately he's treated to the noisy sloshing of the water moving around inside him, splashing in the air pocket and bubbling noisily as his stomach creaks and growls, coaxing the air up Stan's throat all at once in a huge rush.

 

A few burps are worked out of him by all of Ford's shaking, and Stan just takes a break, relaxing back against the chair, letting his brother play with his gut and rut against it--it's easy to relax with Ford's weight pressing up on him, his brother's hands playing over the bloated surface of his gut. With the sound of the sea water slapping against the boat, and Stan full to capacity, he's feeling a little light headed and just enjoying the break.

 

"Lookit you . . . I dunno if I've ever seen ya so happy. Wish I'd known this was your __thing__  sooner, but we'll make up for lost time." He assures Ford, holding him by the hips now as their bellies press tight together, the flat of Ford's abs pressed up tight against his bloated gut.

 

Ford bites his lip and looks up from Stan's gut to his face, trying sheepishly to hide how frantically excited he is by this. "We should set a time limit," he says, licking his lips. "How long you have to hold it before you're allowed to go. How about... four hours? Do you think you can handle that?"

 

"Four hours?" He sounds uncertain, looking down at his very full gut, but soon enough he's grinning like an idiot. "You kiddin', I can hold it for four hours."

 

"That's what I like to hear," Ford says, licking his lips with a grin. "To make things a little fun... I'll give you a little challenge at the top of every hour. And if you wet yourself, if you lose control-- we start over. New gallon, and you don't get to change your pants. Deal?"

 

"Guess I better hold it." Stan chuckles, running a thumb over Ford's cheek gently. "What kinda challenge are you thinkin'? Or is that a surprise?"

 

"I'll figure it out as I go," Ford licks his lips. "Since this is the top of the first hour... you can start by getting me off so I can go about my duties after this without my dick chapping in my pants. Since the water is so fresh in there... how about you use your mouth? You aren't allowed to throw any of it back up."

 

Stan burps again, "I think I can do that, why don't you and me switch places."

 

He helps Ford off his lap, and gets to his feet, a bit wobbly but still quite able to walk and move without too much hindrance. He shoves his brother down into the seat, and drops down onto his knees, his belly moulding heavily to his thighs from this position.

 

Stan unbuttons his pea coat, and pops Ford's belt, to get to the main event, pulling his card cock out of his briefs and looking at it with adoration for a moment or two before he licks a stripe up the side in one slow, thoughtful motion, his fingers sliding up and down the shaft. Then, he slides the thick head against his tongue, tasting salty pre on the tip as he guides it to the back of his throat, tongue flat against the vein. HIs mouth is cool and wet from the water he'd chugged not but moments ago, his whole tongue moist and soft against Ford's skin.

 

One of Ford's arms loops back over the bench seat and he rocks his hips up to give Stan a better angle to work with. His other hand drops immediately to shove his stupid hat off so he can run his fingers into his hair with a firm grip. "Oh god," he moans lowly, arching his hips up to grind his cock across Stan's tongue. A fine tremble starts up in one of his thighs as his foot arches up into a delicate point on the ground, pleasure tightening his stomach and balls in one heavy surge.

 

"Yes, god yes," He moans loudly, his head dropping back and his face going slack in an expression of indulgent pleasure. He rocks his hips up, stabbing Stan in the back of the throat, daring him to gag, daring him to throw up.

 

That cock hitting his tonsils does cause Stan's throat to clench, and over Ford's desperate moans, the grumbling of his overfilled gut sounds like a warning bell; but Stanley clenches hard just as a gush of water slips up his throat, but he manages to swallow it back down before it has a chance to wash hot over Ford's cock.

 

Usually, Stan is on the receiving end of such attentions, it's been a little while since he'd gone down on Ford, which is simply a shame considering how nice his brother's cock is--usually it's a quick handjob, or he just pounds an orgasm out of him with his slamming against his prostate. This is decidedly more intimate than all of that, though making Ford come with his hand is always a treat, as well.

 

Relaxing his throat, he's able to gulp Ford back, the head of his cock slipping past Stanley's tonsils, hitting the back of his gullet. His tongue is doing most of the work right now, laving thick and wet over the underside of Ford's cock, but once he's got a comfortable feel of it in his mouth, Stan bobs his head, clutching the base of the shaft between three fingers, gliding his mouth up and down the shaft, tongue working in tandem for a slick glide.

 

"Fuck!" Ford shouts when Stan starts to move with earnest, his thighs shaking with spasms of pleasure, his foot trembling uncontrollably in its high arch. His other hand comes down to join the first in Stan's silver hair, gripping tightly at the roots as he fucks up over his tongue. He's slumped so far down the seat that only his head hooked over the back of the bench is keeping him in place, his stomach clenched up tight as he rocks his hips up in heavy strokes over his brother's tongue.

 

Honestly, Ford forgets to even ask for this, most of the time. He knows Stan would oblige if he just asked, but the temptation of having a prostate orgasm fucked out of him is often more tempting, and if he doesn't manage to come from penetration alone, he's usually too wrung out to do anything more than clutch Stan's wrist and sob when he reaches around to rub one out for him. The feeling of Stan's mouth is absolutely intoxicating around him now, as his mouth steadily heats up, and he tells himself to ask for this more often-- but he'll probably forget again the next time he gets Stan's cock in him.

 

Stan pulls away with a wet pop and drags his tongue in a heavy line up one sides of Ford's cock and down the other--his breath is hot now, and he toys with his brother's glans, running his tongue along the rim and up against his pisshole, making the most obscene noises, like he's enjoying a dessert a little too much.

 

He presses a kiss against the shaft and looks up at Ford, who is compromised, leaning as far back against the bench as he can, his thighs trembling. Stan's mouth is right up against his cock as he speaks, and his vice rumbles down his cock like a vibrator, "Really oughtta do this more often . . . ya taste so good, Stanford."   
  
But he doesn't linger long, and engulfs his cock again, dipping his head anew in a rythm set by Ford's bucking hips, and he gulps down the thick jet of precome that coats his tongue, making the glide slicker, and adding to the gallon of water that's got him filled up to his eyeballs.

 

"Oh god," his back arches up first, jamming his cock down Stan's throat, and as his pleasure builds the tension in his back snaps and he curls inwards instead, his thighs lifting off the bench as he curls up around Stan's head, holding onto his hair with both hands as his legs tremble through his orgasm.

 

"Stanley!" he shouts, shooting across his brother's tongue in heavy stripes, jetting thickly down his throat. Pleasure keeps his muscles tight, his thighs shaking violently around Stan's ears as he sucks Ford right through it.

 

Stanley growls low in his throat, he doesn't pull back but takes it all, milking Ford for all he's worth, working his tongue over every inch he can reach, pressing the thick head to the back of his throat; and he just lets his load slide down his throat.

 

When Ford's hips turn still and he sprawls back against the seat, panting Stan pulls back, swallowing thickly just to clear his mouth, and he sits back on his haunches, one hand on his gut as it gurgles noisily. An arrogant little smirk pulls the corner of his mouth up and he laughs, "And you thought I'd upchuck."

 

Ford laughs softly. "You sure proved me wrong," he murmurs, reaching forward to rub his hand through Stan's hair. "Now get yourself cleaned up... we have work to do."

 

He wipes off and tucks himself away, before hopping up to his feet and offering a hand to help Stan to his. Then it's with a sly smirk that he moves past him towards the deck, to busy himself with the daily upkeep of running a boat. Checking the sails and knots, checking their course and heading below deck to make sure the engine isn't doing anything out of the ordinary-- all regular boat things that he does every single day. But today there's just a hint of tension to every move he makes and every step he takes, because he knows that he's just counting down the minutes until it's been an hour since Stan's drank that gallon, and he'll already be suffering pretty badly just an hour later. And then it'll be another three hours after that before he's allowed to piss, or he has to start over... it's all Ford can think about.


	3. Chapter 3

Going about his daily chores isn't too bad at first, but Stan can _feel_  his gut swaying from side to side, heavy with liquid, sloshing each time he bends down or shifts, and occasionally he can feel a gush creep up his throat before he's able to swallow it back down. Once in awhile, he and Ford cross paths and lock eyes. He catches his brother oggling him sometimes, eyes lingering on his stomach, and as time dwindles down on the first hour, Stanley can already feel the urge to piss pressing like a stone in the center of his core, though it's not as intense as it could be, he knows this is just the beginning.

 

Ford seems more than a little distracted from his tasks every time he and Stanley are anywhere in proximity to one another. He just keeps watching the younger twin with a hungry expression, like he's waiting for at any moment when Stan will buckle and piss himself after just an hour of menial labor. He's visibly, helplessly turned on just by being on deck with him, often stumbling over his feet or outright dropping things completely. He always blushingly corrects his blunders, and avoids eye contact entirely.

 

For his part, Stan flirts with him every chance he gets. When he meets his glance from across the way, sometimes he'll glance off and rub his belly as if absently musing about something, and once or twice, when Ford had been close enough, he muttered under his own breath and fidgeted a bit, readjusting his belt, which is hardly hamming it up, considering how hard it's pressing against his bladder; but all in all he plays it up just for his brother's benefit, though Stan gets to watch him fall apart.

 

When Ford's watch beeps its alarm for the first hour, Ford is on Stan like a freight train, slamming him up against the wall of the cabin with his hands fisted in his jacket, and he kisses him like he'll die without it, immediately scraping his tongue over Stan's teeth to get into his mouth as he wedges up against his body with a hard shove. His thigh crams up against Stan's cock and presses into his already-swollen bladder, and his stomach presses tight against Stan's still slightly water-filled belly. He feels like a waterbed just sloshing from top to bottom as Ford kisses him like his life depends on it.

 

"Mmf god Ford . . ." Stan mumbles against his lips, hands glued to Ford's hips, unable to really think straight with that thigh slamming against his cock. A hot, heavy pulse thumps through his lower belly and the instant urge to piss is barely contained by Stan bearing down on his pelvic floor.

 

"Sit," Ford grunts, shoving Stan to sit down on a heavy crate by the door, but as soon as Stan's hands start moving towards his belt, whether they were going to adjust or unclip it doesn't matter, because Ford forcibly yanks his hands away. "No. No touching yourself, no adjusting."

 

He climbs onto Stan's lap, settling right against him, heavy against his belly and worse against his bladder, forcing him to clench hard in order to keep everything inside as Ford starts to run his teeth and lips along his throat up to his ear. He bites and tugs the lobe and breathes heavily down his throat. "You're going to keep your hands to yourself until I say so... understood, Stanley? No touching yourself-- and no touching me."

Craning his neck to the side to give him better access of his neck, Stan groans softly, his cock twitching to life at the low rumble of his brother's voice in his ear. A heavy breath leaves him, and he gulps thickly, gaze sliding to Ford and his lips part, somehow dry even after all that water, "You in the mood to Top today, Sixer? You're lucky I gotta piss so bad, I might have creamed ya good for bein' so--ah who am I kiddin' ya know I'm weak for you. Do whatever ya want, I'm putty in your hands."

  
Ford bites his lip smugly. "Good answer," he chuckles. "You can cream me later... for now just __behave__."

 

He leans back just far enough to open his own belt and tug out his cock, already completely hard and leaking-- but that's no surprise, he's been turned on for the entire hour they waited for this moment. He grips Stan's shoulder with his other hand and just leans his forehead against his brother's, groaning between his teeth as he glides his hand up over his damp skin. It isn't enough though, so he raises his palm to Stan's face, cupped under his chin, and commands, "Spit."

 

Tilting his head, Stan works up a fair bit of spit and deposits it with a nice, crisp sound into Ford's palm, and he watches as his brother returns his hand to his cock and jerks off between them, his fingers gliding slick and sweet over his skin.

 

It's driving him nuts already, not being able to touch Ford--just a kiss, or a quick peck on the cheek would be enough, but he'd promised, or at least agreed to behave himself. Idly, he wonders if Ford would swat his hands away if he tried, which prompts him to ask;

 

"Whaddaya gonna do to me if I touch ya, Sixer?" He swallows back the lump in his throat and watches his brother's face closely, mouth open, his brows furrowed softly as he rubs one out. "You gonna punish me?"

 

There's two ways Stanley will go when he agrees to bottom--either he's sweet, soft and willing or he becomes the biggest prick imaginable. He's pushing the boundaries of the second, though he hasn't yet insulted Ford, though that might change. Afterall, he hadn't said __anything__  about dirty talking.

 

"I'll make you drink more," Ford grunts, grabbing Stan by the back of the neck to hold his head in place as he grinds his hips up into his hand, and subsequently grinds down on Stan's lap, right up against his full bladder. The gentle, rolling pressure of his hips against the veritable water balloon trapped inside his brother beneath a too-tight belt is enough to make Stan's thighs squirm, which  is everything Ford wanted. He groans through his teeth as he sets them into Stan's throat, biting and scraping and practically chewing the muscle of his shoulder through his shirt as he fucks his own hand against the heavy bloat of his brother's bladder.

 

"Guess I better behave myself then . . ." He groans heavily, trying to keep still, his hands pinned to the crate, fingers clutching the edges so hard his knuckles are going white. The thrum of pleasure low in Stan's gut just heightens the need for release; his lower tummy is swollen out, heavy and firm, his tummy so tight and round that he can feel the stitches of his shirt hem pop with every other breath.

 

Watching Ford with heavy eyes, Stan keeps his hands on the crate and mutters, "Are you gonna get off just rubbin' against me? Guess I didn't realize how into this you really were . . . look at you, your face is so red." Shifting slightly, Stanley's knees knock together and he clenches down on his lower belly just as he feels the rush of pee threatening to leak out of his half-hard cock. "Oh God, Stanford . . . I need to piss so bad."

 

Ford just lets out a breathy whimper when Stan says that, and he throws his arm around Stan's shoulders, gripping the material of his coat as he hides his face in his shoulder. "Don't do it, you're not allowed," he gasps out, and lets go of his cock in order to rub it instead against the hard bulge of Stan's bladder through his clothes. He can feel how swollen and tight it is, and it makes his thighs tremble as he fucks against the heavy lump and moans wetly into his brother's shoulder.

 

"Oh my god," his voice comes out high-pitched and reedy, he's already so close after only a few moments. "Touch-- touch me Stanley--not my cock, touch me anywhere else--"  his cock has all the stimulation it could possibly need, rubbing up against Stan's full bladder.

 

As Ford frots against his stomach, Stanley grabs him by the back of the neck and drags his head down so he can crush their mouths together in a bruising kiss, and with that one hand still gripping him there, he lets the other slip up under Ford's turtleneck, grazing over scars and moving up over the flat plain of his chest to toy with his nipples; of course he immediately goes for the hard hitting stuff, but that's just Stanley's MO.

 

Just the small pressure of Ford rubbing against his bulging bladder has Stan panting into his brother's open mouth. He can feel piss trying to dribble out of his cock, but through his own willpower he manages to stop it just shy of that; but the urge to piss has him shaking and nearly-sobbing against Ford's lips, he's in such need of release he's losing his mind a little as Ford's hips rut against his full stomach.

 

With just a couple seconds of stimulation to his nipple Ford is gone, wailing into his brother's mouth as he comes hard, his body jerking and his hips snapping against Stan's tummy as he releases over his shirt in thick strings. He breaks the kiss in order to hide in his shoulder again, slumped against him and grinding against his stomach until the trembling in his legs stops, and he slumps back.

 

"My god..." he murmurs, sliding backwards off Stan's lap and to his feet, taking a moment to just admire his red-faced brother, with his belly pressing out hard against his belt and the lines of cum cooling over his stomach. With a smug smirk, Ford tucks himself away and zips up his pants. "That's enough of that... you passed a second time. We'll see if you can last the next hour."

 

With that he turns away, leaving Stan there hard and full and out of his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

It stings a little to be left to his own devices, but Stan knows its in good fun, so he doesn't let it get to him. He sits awhile there on the crate, nursing his hard prick between his fingers but decides that cumming right now might loose the dam, so to speak, so he pushes to his feet, dizzy and full and wobbles off to tend to his afternoon chores.

 

His erection gives him some relief. It's always been hard for him to piss when his dick's hard, so it does give him a bit of reprieve from feeling like he's about to piss himself. Moving around helps a little, at least helping him forget the pressure for a little while, but every time he stops, it's like an emergency and he finds himself dancing from toe to toe on occasion.

 

Ford watches Stan struggle from afar, and every time they make eye contact it looks like Ford is the one who's going to call everything off just so he can reap the rewards of watching Stan piss. By now the full gallon has worked its way out of Stan's belly as they approach the second hour mark, leaving his stomach empty but his bladder practically bursting.

 

Which Ford takes full advantage of. When they approach the second hour it's nearing lunch time, and Ford has prepared a meal for them both. They'd just lit off from Bangladesh, and most of their stores of food are from the same country, so he makes them a very hearty meal with everything they have available, and calls Stan to their tiny kitchen once it's ready. The whole lower deck smells heavenly, and as Stan waddles in and sits at the table, Ford sets down their plates. His own is a modest portion, but Stan's is absolutely monstrous. It's larger by half than his usual portions-- not nearly enough to completely stuff him, but on top of his bladder being as full as it is? It's going to be a challenge.

 

The dish itself looks delicious, fried rice and chicken drumsticks and wings with meat so tender it's falling off the bones, boiled eggs and stirfried veggies sprinkled throughout generously, as well as thick cuts of crispy barbecued bacon. Ford sits across from Stan looking very smug, and says, "If you finish your meal, I'll let you undo your belt at the end."

 

"Ah jeeze, I dunno about this, Sixer. Ya don't think I'm in danger of rupturin' somethin' do ya?" Stan licks his lips all the same and lifts one of the drumsticks for a bite. Despite his bladder aching for release, he is __hungry__  which is a surprise, but then again Ford's food always makes his stomach growl.

 

"You? Not at all. Not considering your abilities. A lesser man, perhaps," Ford says as he starts stripping meat from the bones with his fork and knife. His portion is almost hilarious compared to Stan's, but his is actually of a relatively normal size. He gathers a spoonful of rice with a bite of meat and pops it in his mouth, watching Stan with a hungry expression that has nothing to do with mealtime. "You once ate nine pounds of food in one sitting-- this won't hurt you. You will be very, very uncomfortable though."

 

It looks like he's counting on Stan being uncomfortable-- and honestly, he is.

 

"Somethin' tells me that's exactly what you want." Stan remarks, and instead of stripping meat off the bone with his fork and knife like a civilized human being, he just takes a chunk out of the drumstick with his teeth, leaving behind a smear of thick sauce on his stubbled cheek.

 

"Then again, I'm pretty sure half the stuff you do is intended to get this gut bigger."

 

"Maybe it is," Ford says with a sly smirk as he watches Stan eat. He tucks into his own food, taking modest bites, but honestly he's barely paying attention to his food, his attention is solely focused on his brother. Every bite that Stan takes Ford is hyper aware of, watching with rapt attention as he holds his spoon like a caveman and digs into his meal like he's never eaten a day in his life, despite the incredible pressure of his bladder.

 

"Are you thirsty?" Ford can't help but taunt just a little bit, and he noisily pours himself a glass of water from a pitcher on the table to take a few swallows from, maybe a little bit noisier than necessary.

 

Stan eyes him sharply. He looks down at his plate, the sauce on the meat is surely a bit thick, and while he knows he'll regret drinking even more he can't help himself, he just wants so badly to get to Ford that he reaches across and takes the glass of water; but instead of sucking a few modest sips from it, Stanley chugs down half of it in one go and pulls it back, panting and burping under his breath.

 

"Thanks, didn't realize how thirsty I was." He says, without skipping a beat. Stan's heart is slamming under his ribs and in the bloated heft of his bladder--it's digging hard into his belt now, and it's not hard to see that Stan keeps shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable as he eats.

 

However, he doesn't let it get to him too much, crunching into bacon and taking bites of hard boiled eggs, eating like he hasn't all day despite the big breakfast they'd had hours before; it's a point of pride for him, knowing that every bite he takes, although it settles heavy and uncomfortable against his aching bladder, makes Ford squirm just a little.

 

"God this is so good, Stanford." Stan mutters, reaching for the rest of the glass, and he chugs the rest down.

 

Ford has stopped eating altogether, just like he did in the restaurant yesterday, in favor of just watching Stan eat. He always eats like he's trying to prove something, taking huge bites and honestly enjoying his food with expressions of joy and noises of delight that often pull disgusted faces from onlookers, but it only ever serves to turn Ford on.

 

He would have been turned on already, but Stan drinking even more has him rubbing his thighs together under the table like a fucking cricket, licking his lips as he watches Stan just keep fucking going. He pours another glass of water dumbly into the pitcher, watching his brother with a red face and slightly open mouth.

 

The hint of a stitch makes his gut ache and twinge, but it only serves to egg him on. Just __feeling__  Ford's eyes on him is reward enough, and it makes him hot under the collar to boot.

 

He almost wants to ask if he can undo his belt, but he's acquainted well enough with Ford's thoughts to __know__  he has to earn that right, so he just takes the newly refilled glass from him and guzzles the water down between big bites, alternating his fork and glass like he's looking to prove his mettle. In a way, he is.

 

That stitch is starting to hurt now, though. Halfway through the plate and two big glasses of water in, not only is his bladder bloated and heavy with the need to piss, but his gut is starting to match. Sure, it's not enough to __properly__  stuff him, but there's already so much inside of him that lunch feels like a __canonball__  sitting in his gut.

 

Stan's forced to take a breath, his belly groaning audibly from across the table, and he shifts as the tingling, lightning hot urge to piss consumes him like wildfire and he pants hard through his nose, ears red, beads of sweat pouring down his face as he wrestles with the need to go.

 

"Are you having a hard time over there?" Ford licks his lips as he watches his brother's hips shift and squirm in his seat. "You know what'll happen if you go... not only will you have to clean it up, but we'll start over-- __after__ you finish your food. I wonder how full you could even get? Maybe I'll make you drink more than a gallon just to punish you for letting go all over the kitchen floor."

 

He leans back in his own seat and visibly reaches down to paw himself through his pants. "Mmm, it would feel good though, wouldn't it? Just to let loose all over yourself? Let it soak down your pants and pool on the floor... would it be worth the punishment? The teasing?"

 

"Shaddup . . ." Stan groans, bending over double, he sets the glass down with a slosh and grips the edge of the table so hard that the wood creaks under his hands. His face is nearly in his plate now as the contractions wash over him in waves, and he heaves through his open mouth and finally succumbs to the pain by putting his head on the table and growling like a wounded animal.

 

"Agh God, Sixer . . . I gotta go."

 

"You can't," Ford says firmly. "You aren't allowed, Stanley. You have to finish your food. You're only halfway done-- both with the food, and your wait. You have two more hours before you're allowed to go... I thought you could handle this? What was it you said? I seem to remember a great deal of smug bluster from you-- __you kidding? I can hold it for four hours...__  tsk tsk, Stanley... already giving up?"

 

"Sixer, at least let me unbuckle my belt, I needa get my cock out, please." Stan mutters, finally looking up. He's completely wrecked, his hair mussed and face beet red. "Please. I'll finish my food."

 

Oh, it's so tempting to say no. And he could, he knows he could. And better yet, he knows that Stan would obey. But he's always had a hard time saying no to Stan when he begs.

 

"Tell you what," he says, crossing his legs and leaning back in his seat. "I'll let you unbuckle your belt early, but only if you suck my cock again once you finish your food."

 

"Okay, okay. I'll suck your cock, Jesus Christ I'm dyin' . . ." Stanley doesn't even wait for proper permission, he just reaches down and pops the buckle open, it snaps apart with an audible pop and Stan gives a nasty sigh of relief.

 

"Oh God . . . that's better, okay." The urge to piss all over himself is still there but it isn't demanding attention like before, and not lingering long on the relief, knowing Ford is __expecting__  things from him, Stan goes back to his plate, eating with one hand, stroking his cock with the other.

 

Ford licks his lips again as he watches, and suddenly remembers his own food even exists again. He lifts his spoon to bring bites to his mouth, but he's barely even paying attention to his food at all in favor of logging every motion that Stanley makes. The bobbing of his arm and the low growling in his chest as he quickly shovels bites into his mouth. It seems that taking the pressure off of his gut has given him new fire to complete the third challenge, and Ford is completely blown away by how quickly he's eating.

 

"God, Stanley..." he moans, gripping himself through his pants as he finishes off the last bite of his own food and sits back to just watch, groping himself openly. "You're so big, I can see it even with the table in the way. Are you feeling full?"

 

Stan gives several wet burps as he tries to clear his throat well enough to talk. Really, he's dizzy with all the sensation coursing through his body--his hand flying over his rock-hard cock, the full throb of his bladder exacerbated by the ball of food sitting heavy in his stomach. He doesn't stop jerking off as he looks up at his brother, his blue eyes dark and deep.

 

"Stuffed," Is all he says in confirmation, and goes right back to shoveling food in his mouth; he's on autopilot, just trying to conquer the plate of food. He shovels too-big bites into his mouth, not even completely chewing or swallowing the previous mouthful before he's stuffing his cheeks with food again; And ford can __hear__  his stomach churning to try and keep up.

 

"You aren't allowed to come," Ford says. "Not yet. You can keep touching yourself, but don't let yourself come."

 

Even as he says it, he taunts Stan by groping himself through his jeans, knowing full well that once Stan is done, Ford will get to come. But it's all part of the game. Ford so rarely takes charge like this, but when he does, he knows exactly what he wants and demands it without question to whether Stan will obey.

 

Stan's barely coherent enough to respond, but he nods and doubles down on the food. His hand only leaves his cock to take long sips of water, knowing he's going to pay for it later; but there's only two more hours to go, and that's really what he keeps telling himself.

 

He finishes the food and almost upchucks into his plate, he'd eaten so much, so fast but he deposits his spoon with a triumphant clatter and takes the pitcher from Ford--and without even pouring it into the glass, he guzzles straight from the carafe itself, chugging and paying no mind to the veritable rivers that streak down the corners of his mouth and wet the tee shirt he's wearing under his half-shucked pea coat.

 

And he keeps chugging until he can't breathe and there's a horrid stitch in his side, which makes him think even more on what Ford had said--a lesser man might have injured himself by now, but Stan's superhuman powers set him above the rest, and allow him to push on. Certainly, he'd never encourage some other poor sod to hold a gallon of piss for as many hours as he has, let alone chug another half gallon on top of that.

 

When the pitcher is drained Stan sets it aside and sags back in his chair, completely spent in a sense. His head is swimming, and over the edge of the table Ford can __see__ how round and heavy his gut is. Packed tight already with a gallon of water previously, the food on top of everything else, plus his little show-off with the pitcher have rendered him near-immobile. His gut sits heavy and hard on his hips, moving without an ounce of softness each time he takes a shallow breath, gurgling so loud it might have echoed through the mess if it were any louder.

 

Stan closes his eyes and runs a hand over his belly, rucking up his shirt to idly run fingers through his own fuzz and toy with his belly button. He knows Ford will soon make demands of him, he's just trying to catch his breath before he has to get on his knees.

 

"Oh my god..." Ford whispers under his breath, breathing hard just from watching that display. A hard shiver runs up his spine as he watches Stan feel himself up, idly stroking over his stuffed belly, tight from the topmost curve under his ribs, all the way down to the swollen underside of his bladder. Ford nearly came in his hand through his pants just watching him-- and he hadn't even been touching himself actively.

 

He stands up from his seat and drops the dominating pretense for a moment in favor of dropping to his knees in front of Stanley and rubbing his hands up and over the stuffed globe of his aching tummy. He leans in to kiss up the center of his gut, massaging the achy sides and rubbing the tight swell of his bladder beneath as his tongue slips into his navel, usually deep but pulled taut from the sheer mass of food and fluids inside of him.

 

Slipping his fingers into Ford's hair, Stan lets his head fall back against the chair, just relishing in the quiet break and allowing himself to be taken care of by his brother. Those hands on his stomach feel like absolute heaven, and he shivers just slightly feeling that tongue lav wordless praises over his skin.

 

Stan himself is nearly catatonic, so overwhelmed with sensation--it's rare he hits a drop like that, but it happens on occasion. Just the feeling of Ford touching him is bringing him slowly back to reality, however.

 

It's a bit before he manages to speak and his voice is completely ruined, "That feels good . . . your hands."

 

"You're halfway done," Ford reminds him as he kisses up to the top curve of Stan's full belly, and then leans up onto his knees to claim his mouth in a short, lazy kiss as his hands maintain their wide, gliding strokes over his tummy. "Two hours and two challenges. You only have two hours left to hold it... do you think you can still do it?"

 

"Yeah--yeah I can do it." Stanley mutters, sitting up a little straighter. A hot shiver runs up and down his spine as he shifts, and the urge to piss slams deep into his gut. His cock twitches with the sensation and a stream of precome dribbles out of the tip of his cock as something akin to an orgasm causes him to shake, bodily and he almost loses control over his bladder.

 

"Shit shit . . . I'm sorry . . ." Stan grumbles, gripping the edge of the table, and Ford's shoulder at the same time as little tremors roll over him. "I'm sorry, I couldn't stop it . . ."

 

Ford bites his lip as he watches Stan fall apart, his own cock aching between his legs. "It's alright, Stanley," he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down Stan's thighs. "Your bladder is so full that it's putting pressure on your prostate... I imagine it was pinching it against the chair and as soon as you shifted all the blood rushed back into it. You just had a prostate orgasm just from __sitting down,__  you're so full... god you're such a sight right now."

 

"I gotta . . . gotta help you out . . ." Stan says drunkenly, pawing at Ford's chest, his big hands fumbling with his brother's belt, which he realizes after a moment is already undone. He gulps thickly and mumbles, "Sit on the table."

 

Ford clears away the dishes so he doesn't knock anything over, setting it all down on the counter and in the sink for him to wash later before he happily hops up onto the table so Stanely can get at him with minimal bending. He greedily tugs open his pants and his cock almost springs out instantly, full and so hard it's painful as it throbs in the open air.

 

Stan clears his throat, a soft smirk tugging at his lips and he licks the palm of his hand, wrapping his fingers around Ford's thick cock.

 

 "I did this." He murmurs proudly, his voice a low, gravely whisper. "You're so hard . . . really enjoyed the show, huh Sixer?" Of course, it's a rhetorical question, and Stanley doesn't wait for an answer, he dips his head, opening his huge mouth to accept his brother's prick, tongue slick over his skin; he slots it into the back of his throat and gags slightly at the sensation of it tickling his tonsils, but he chokes back tears and gulps against him, tongue fluttering heavily over the vein running up the underside.

 

Then he pulls back with an audible pop and lets his fingers splay over Ford's thigh, licking a stripe up his cock, glassy blue eyes sweeping up to look into Ford's and he doesn't break eye contact again when he swallows him for a second time, head bobbing and he's making those *noises* again, those animal grunts as he essentially fucks his brother with his mouth.

 

"Oh god!" Ford curls up almost immediately, his face flushing darkly with color as Stan takes him so fucking expertly. It's hard for him to maintain the dominating play he's been indulging in when he's completely falling apart at the first touch of his brother's mouth over his cock. He's just so goddamn good at it, and in Ford's natural state as the subbiest bitch this side of the baltic, especially for his brother, it's hard to maintain even a stitch of superiority in the situation once Stan's mouth is on him.

 

"Oh fuck, oh fuck _ _oh fuck__ ," he gasps, both of his hands flying to grip Stan's hair. He doesn't have the leverage to thrust with his feet dangling like this, all he can do is accept the pace that Stan sets and flex his thighs helplessly under the pleasure.

 

The only time he pulls away is to make a show of licking right up the bottom of Ford's cock, then he plunges back down, bowing his head in time with the tense of Ford's thighs, trying to keep a comfortable rythm between them. His mouth is so big and warm, made extra wet and soft by the water he'd just chugged, there's still some lingering coolness on his tongue, but it's quickly warming with the glide of Ford's cock.

 

Stan drops his hand from Ford's thigh to his balls, and while he bobs on his prick, blue eyes still watching him with utter adoration. He massages his nuts, letting his thumb follow the seam between them, rolling the skin under his fingers.

 

"Fuck! Oh fuck oh my god--" Ford babbles, his shoulders hitching up to his ears. He's embarrassingly near the edge already after only a couple minutes of Stan's mouth, possibly even less-- it's frankly impossible to keep track of the passage of time when he has a wide, wet mouth sucking him down like he was made for it. His thighs tremble and shake and his hands dig harder into his brother's hair, holding on just to keep himself grounded.

 

Between Stan's hand and his mouth, Ford finds himself barreling towards the edge already, and his back arches as his head falls back, and he moans up at the ceiling so loud that it echoes through the whole room. "Oh FUCK, Stanley, I'm gonna cum-- __shit__ oh god-- I'm gonna cum--"

 

In response, Stan shifts his hand, pressing the flat of his knuckles against Ford's perineum and shakes his fist, sending hard vibrations through his skin, deep deep into his prostate; and he does this with no reprieve from the glide of his mouth, his cheeks hollow, gulping on Ford's cock like he's trying to eat him alive.

 

"Oh fuckFUCK!" Ford comes like a rocket, his thighs lifting up and his knees bracing against Stan's shoulders as he falls apart. His legs tremble in typical fashion, his feet shaking uncontrollably as he gushes down Stan's throat, giving him just one more thing to swallow on top of everything else. Ford's head is thrown back, his expression pinched with absolute bliss for several long, breath-stealing seconds.

 

Finally he sags, and he has to throw a hand behind him to catch himself on the table just so he doesn't collapse backwards over the metal, and he's left drooped and panting, his legs twitching every few seconds as aftershocks make his muscles clench and jump.

 

Stan sucks Ford dry of everything he has to give before pulling away from him with a wet pop and a loud burp that he'd been suppressing throughout. Sitting back, he drags his hands up and down Ford's thighs and watches him with soft eyes, "You're okay. I've got ya."

 

"Oh jesus," Ford whispers under his breath before he comes back into his head and he blinks rapidly as he looks down at Stan. Licking his lips, he lets out a reedy, quiet laugh. "How is it that even when I'm trying to take control, you still manage to drop me like this?"

 

Stan smirks, "I just know how to take ya apart, is all. You got to me too, ya know-- orderin' me around over lunch." He takes a deep breath as another shiver runs the length of his spine and he can feel himself tipping over the edge again. "It's not like you didn't . . . ah God."

 

Another micro-orgasm pulls Stan's face tight and he goes rigid all over again, his cock leaking onto the kitchen floor for a second time. He drops his head onto Ford's leg and practically sobs with pleasure.

 

Ford grins when Stan falls apart again, and he reaches down to fluff his hands through his hair. "You aren't allowed to cum yet," he says, licking his lips. "If you can hold out another hour, then you'll be allowed to cum-- and I promise it'll be the best orgasm of your life. Well..." he chuckles. "Second best. Once you finally get to piss-- _ _that'll__  be the best, I'm sure."

 

Stan doesn't lift his head, his glasses just crunch further into Ford's leg, but his shoulder shake with mirth, "I dunno if I have much say in that at this point, but I'll do my best."

 

"You know the rules," Ford smirks, helping Stan up to his feet and he tucks his tentpole back into his jeans. He pulls the fly up, but blessedly lets Stan keep his belt and button open. "You know what'll happen if you piss yourself."

 

He winds his arms briefly around Stan's neck to kiss him, just to indulge himself in pressing up against the hard globe of Stan's tummy, before he pulls away and licks his lips with a sly smile. "Now get upstairs and do your midday chores. I'll do the dishes and be up in a few minutes."

 

Really, considering how many times Stan has tortured his brother with orgasm denial, he's more than earned the chastising remarks. He gives Ford one last peck on the lips before unwinding his belt and setting it on the table. Waddling out of the mess hall isn't easy, he feels like he weighs a hundred pounds heavier than when they'd started.


	5. Chapter 5

Doing his chores, he has a hard time catching his breath. Despite being heavy, Stan's never had a problem with the tasks, not since the beginning when he'd been out of shape, but with the weight in his belly he feels like he's being smothered under the weight of his own gut.

 

He tries to play it off when Ford appears, attempts to make it seem like he's not struggling, but there's no hiding how slow and stiff he is; worse still, occasionally when he bends down to lift or move something, the weight of his gut drives a spike of heat directly into his prostate and a couple of times he nearly drops a heavy box on his toes as one of those teeth-shattering micro-orgasms shakes through him and turns him to jelly.

 

It's such a stark contrast to Stanley's usual, larger-than-life confidence. He's reduced to a feeble, shaking, panting lump, and he can tell by Ford's smug glances that he's eating it up.

 

Waiting the next hour is just as difficult for Ford as it is for Stan. Well-- maybe not __just__ as difficult, considering how often Stan has to pause and breathe heavily, sweating and puffing and mopping his damp face with his hat. Luckily it's not a hot day on the sea, which is the only saving grace for Stan, but as that last half gallon filters through his system, the tightness in his bladder gets even worse and his desperation grows by the minute.

 

And just watching it all happen has Ford completely beside himself with lust. He feels like he's been hard for hours, and truthfully he has-- but even with two orgasms under his belt already since this started, he feels like he's had just as rough a time with his cock grinding against his jeans as Stan has.

 

He keeps checking his watch, Stanley. The minutes seem to tick by too slowly, like time is moving slower for him specifically, though logically he knows it's just his predicament. Around half an hour, his mettle is tested when he catches sight of the glistening water just over the edge of the boat and gets lost thinking about how __nice__  it would feel to just let rip and in his daydream he almost does.

 

It takes him gripping the railing and talking out loud to himself to keep his composure, but he's almost brought to his knees by the process, supported only by the railing of the ship. He rides out the bone-deep cramps and the overwhelming sense of urgency by breathing in and out through his nose and hyping himself up with a pep talk.

 

When he checks his watch, the hand has just slid past the half hour mark, and he just shakes his head, trying desperately not to fall apart again as he slops water onto the upper deck and sets to mopping with shaking arms.

 

He's completely on auto pilot when Ford startles him out of his reverie half an hour later at the edge of the deck, shocking him out of his thoughts so bad he once again almost releases his bladder all over his legs. Ford has come up behind him, nuzzling into the side of his neck, and his hands grip him first by the chest before sliding down over his heavy belly and cupping the underside, where his gut has dropped so low with the weight of his bladder that he looks like he's preparing to give birth.

 

"You lasted another hour, Stanley," Ford murmurs, reaching down to grab and grope Stan by the cock with one hand, while his other hand cradles his aching bladder. "You feel so full and heavy..."

 

Stan gulps thickly, dropping the mop into the bucket, and he leans back against Ford knowing he can take his weight. "Can I go yet? I need to, so bad . . . please, Sixer."

 

As a hand cups his bladder, even that slight pressure builds in his cock and he feels just the smallest trickle of piss roll down his leg. He's bursting at the seams with urgency, breathing so hard it's practically his default state.

 

"Not yet. It's only been three hours," Ford says, licking his lips and kissing up the side of Stan's neck to nip at his ear. "But I will let you fuck me. I think it's high time you get your turn to cum. But I warn you-- if you let go inside of me, I'll make you drink it out of my ass, do you understand me?" Ford growls the last part, his hand squeezing like a vice over Stan's cock.

 

"I dunno--I dunno if I can do it." Stan mutters, shaking his head vigorously. "I dunno . . . if I can--I can't fuck ya, I'll let go I know I will--and I don't wanna . . . start over, I just wanna do it right the first time." He shuts his mouth quickly, realizing he'd been rambling, and quite panicked no less.

 

Ford grins. "Then you'd better hold it in, huh tough guy?" a throb starts in his cock at how frantic Stan has become, what a completely different person he's been turned into by desperation. "Because this is challenge number three. I was already below deck, fingering myself at the thought of you up here, waddling around with your bladder so full you can't breathe or sit down... god, Stanley, I almost came in less than a minute with my fingers in my own ass thinking about you. I need you to fuck me. You __have to__  fuck me."

 

Normally, Stan might bristle or get all puffed up and macho about the situation, grab Ford and force him into a subservient role, but he just quakes against his brother's frame and nods, "Okay. Okay, Stanford."

 

Ford takes pity on how tight Stan's plumbing situation is and just drops his jeans down to his ankles, bending over to take the railing of the boat. He throws a steamy look back over his shoulder as the state of his hole is bared to Stan, bright red with stimulation and shiny with slick that's been applied so liberally it's leaking out of his slack rim and dribbling down over his perineum. He licks his lips and his knuckles creak on the railing as he flexes his pucker in his brother's direction.

 

"I'm already ready for you," he says in a rough voice.

 

Stanley growls low in his throat, and manages to find himself, grabbing Ford by the back of the neck, he slams his full weight against him--the boat's sturdy enough to take their weight and then some. His gut is still hard and heavy, and slots easy into the small of Ford's back as Stan dips his head forward to press a kiss against his brother's neck and after fishing his cock out, he slides inside without resistance.

 

The moan that drips from him is completely involuntary and rough in Ford's ear. Slotting perfectly inside, the tip of his cock bounces against Ford's prostate, nudging and pressing tight against it before he's pulling back out, hands on Ford's hips for leverage, and he's fucking into him without a single higher thought occupying his mind.

 

Braced with his legs in a wide stance, he rams into Ford so hard his brother's knees shake to stay upright, and he white knuckles the railing. Stan is frenzied, and already so close, his hips snapping against Ford's, fevered and purposed with Stan on a mission to find release for both of them.

 

"Fuck!" Ford's voice is quite literally fucked out of him as Stan bears down on him, leaning his weight down on Ford in a way that makes him breathless. His arms buckle on the railing and he pitches forward, his forehead slamming down against his forearms as they fold under his head, held down by the brutal weight of his brother on top of him.

 

He dissolves into just animal noises then, pleasure flaring through his system like a wildfire, roaring and massive and mind-numbing. He can't even keep his eyes open, they crush shut as he's fucked brutally from behind. The stretch of his fingers had been nothing compared to the heavy drag of Stan's cock splitting him open, aching up into his teeth. The thought of how easy it would be for Stan to release inside of him, to just completely let go and fill him up with a gallon of piss until his own belly is heavy and sagging makes his knees tremble and almost give out, and were it not for the ramming pressure of Stan's ramrod cock slamming into him, and that thick hand on the back of his neck pinning him in place, he might have actually collapsed.

 

His voice comes back in a rush and he wails with pleasure, remembering how to use words all at once. "OH god oh god _ _oh my god__ ** **fuck**** Stanley-- oh god fuck I'm already close-- fuck you feel good-- oh fuck __oh fuck__  it feels so good--"

 

Stanley has honestly lost his mind. He's nothing but a grunting, drooling animal at Ford's back. One hand is clamped tight around the back of his neck, the other at his hip and Stan's pounding into him with a renewed strength, which he hadn't even thought himself capable of minutes ago when Ford had begged him to fuck.

 

His thrusts are brutal, and might have knocked Ford over the edge of the railing if he didn't have such a firm grip on it. To meet Stan's hips, he jumps up onto the balls of his feet every time Stanley's cock drives home; and after so long of handjobs and blowjobs, the feeling of Stan slamming bodily into him is enough to make his teeth clatter as that heavy, water-filled gut bears down on him from behind, weighing him down with the force of it.

 

And the grind of Ford's hips too, puts pressure on Stanley's bladder and once in awhile, he can feel a trickle of piss--small enough so as not to be noticed, but it's spilling into his brother one little drop at a time; the thought of filling him with his piss is so overwhelming that Stanley bellows like a bull, grabbing Ford harder around the throat, practically wringing the life out of him as he fucks the good sense out of both of them.

 

Ford is barely conscious, Stan is fucking him so hard that his eyes roll back and his mouth drops open-- and once Stan's massive hand curls around his neck and chokes the air out of him his noises cut off completely. A pressure starts up behind his eyes, burning hot and wet and tears roll down his face, fucked out of him by pure sensation alone. He can barely keep his eyes open on the water, he feels so completely used that he barely feels like a person anymore.

 

Somewhere amidst it all an orgasm is fucked out of him, followed a few short thrusts later by a second even more powerful wave, and his cock dribbles like a faucet on the deck as his legs tremble and go weak with pleasure. Stan slips out of him as his legs give out and his knees hit the deck-- and he gives a choked whimper of displeasure at being suddenly empty, but despite his crushing grip on the railing, he can't seem to get his trembling legs to cooperate enough to support his weight.

 

Stan grabs him by the shoulder and drags him around bodily to face him, panting through his nose, he growls some command for Ford to open his mouth and his brother complies, cloudy eyed and red faced; and Stan jerks off, his hand flying over his cock so fast that his fingers are blurred.

 

His guts shudder and Stan finds himself in the throes of another prostate orgasm, only this time, he shoots off right into Ford's waiting mouth. Stanley comes so hard he has to grip the railing with one hand to keep from falling over, back going rigid and hunched as he aims his prick for Ford's lips. Several stringy jets coat his mouth and tongue, dripping down his chin and among the musky taste of Stanley's release is the penetrating sting of urine, though it doesn't seem he's actually pissed himself--he's just so utterly stuffed with water that it's coming out anywhere it can.

 

Squeezing the last drops out of the head of his cock, Stan slumps against the rail, feeling so heavy he might fall over otherwise. The low buzz of his orgasm is overshadowed by just how badly he needs to piss, his bladder throbbing with every heartbeat now.

 

Ford ordinarily would relish in the opportunity to swallow as a show for Stan, but he can definitely taste some piss in his mouth and he'd rather not swallow that-- so instead he makes a show of letting it drip out of his mouth and down his chest with the intention of changing his sweater once they're done here. It runs off his tongue in messy strings and he looks up at Stan with an expression of worship and adoration, hazy and flushed and absolutely in love.

 

When he's satisfied with the mess he's made he finally closes his mouth and swallows thickly as he watches Stan struggle just to keep his bladder under control, and he reaches up to slide his hands up and down Stan's thighs. "You did it," he murmurs. "Just one more hour and then you can go. You did it, Stanley."

 

He answers with a low growl. Not even words, just the noise of instinct as he's touched and the hairs on his forearms raise to the feeling of Ford's fingers, even that brief sensation is so much on top of the ever-climbing need for release.

 

Stanley almost drops to his knocked knees, his legs shaking uncontrollably as sweat pours down his face. The neckline and pits of his white tee shirt are already soaked through, and growing more damp as the last hour starts. His head falls flush with his hands, clutching the railing with desperation, trying to swallow back actual tears, he's so raw from it all.

 

Ford takes Stan's cock in his hand, much to the chagrin of his twin who immediately whimpers in overstimulation, but he takes pity on the poor man and plugs his pisshole with his thumb, pressing so hard it hurts a little bit-- hard enough that not a drop will escape. "Relax your muscles for a few moments," he murmurs. "I'll keep you plugged. You've been working so hard to hold it, you deserve a short break. Your reward for fucking me so good I came twice."

 

Though Stan doesn't have much faith that one __thumb__  could possibly stop the flood inside of him, he tries to trust Ford's words instead and relaxes the muscles in his stomach, and immediately he feels piss rush down the length of his cock; but it stops short, plugged by Ford's thumb and while relief does wash over him, and the intense feeling of __fullness__  in his cock takes him a bit off guard.

 

"I gotta make it." Stan grunts, leaning heavy on the rail, still panting. "I don't wanna disappoint you."

 

"You'll make it," Ford says, rubbing his other hand up and down Stan's trembling thigh as he keeps his grip hard on his cock. "It's just one more hour, and then you can let go, and it'll feel so good you'll cry. You've already made it so far, what's one more hour?"

 

"Right. Yeah . . ." Stan trails off and takes a few, deep breaths to steel himself and moves away from Ford at last, shoving his cock back in his pants. He's still trembling slightly, his legs threatening to give out, but they seem more stable than before now. Tugging off his pea coat, Stan tosses it onto a crate nearby, revealing his sweat stained and straining tee shirt. He wipes his face with his knit hat and crams it back on his head, setting Ford with a resolute expression.

 

"You go get cleaned up. I've got shit to do."


	6. Chapter 6

Ford grins and does exactly that. Guiltily, he takes a few extra minutes below deck just to rub another one out-- but in his defense, he can barely function with how sexy Stan is right now. He washes his face and brushes his teeth, and changes his sweater out for a tee shirt to combat the heat in his body from watching Stan come apart for the past three hours, and finally comes back up on deck after about twenty minutes feeling refreshed-- only to go weak all over again.

 

Stanley is so big, his belly is so swollen with the volume of his bladder and the heft of his lunch sitting on top of it, slowly being churned away by his stomach-- though the process seems to be slow with how waterlogged he is. Ford's vision goes smoky and dark again as he watches Stan struggle just to walk upright. Forty minutes left on the clock... part of him honestly hopes Stan will just piss himself.

 

It'll take him longer than forty minutes to swab the lower deck, but it has to be done and there's no time like the present. He can feel Ford watching him through the windows of the bridge, and it's hard to imagine he's not touching himself again behind the console, just watching Stan struggle with the mop bucket, sweating hard with the simple effort of moving the mop head across the deck.

 

He feels so heavy. Like his body's made of lead. The weight of his gut tugs on him so hard he's forced to hunch even more than usual, which is saying a lot considering Stan's posture; but he glides the wet mop in a grid over the deck, refreshing it now and again, his arms flexing with the effort of wringing the mop out. Sweat is pouring down his forehead, blurring his vision and his white tee is soaked through and sticking to his fuzzy chest, which is visible through the sweat stains now.

 

Occasionally, he pauses to look up at Ford, leaning on the mop. It's a struggle to stay upright, but when he does catch Ford's guilty gaze, Stanley makes a show of rucking his shirt up and toying with his gut, slipping a finger into his belly button, scratching fingers through the hair there and being generally gross.

 

Ford likes it, though.

 

God, does Ford like it.

 

He's completely out of his mind with lust for Stan like this. Stuffed full, unable to stand upright, so bloated he's visibly sweating and in pain... Ford wonders sometimes what kind of depravity will officially be too far for him-- he's not sure there will ever be a line. Not when it comes to Stan. Stan could sit on his lap and __fart__ on him and it would probably turn him on.

 

He's watching the clock just as regularly as Stan is at this point, desperately waiting for the minutes to tick by. He's gotten hard again somewhere in that span, and the lack of blood flow to his brain has made him dizzy with desire. Just twenty more minutes now, and it's just as horrible torture for him as it is for Stan.

 

The only way Stanley can cope is by not checking the clock. Time goes by quicker if he's not constantly glancing at the crawling hands of his watch, but not looking is its own form of torture. Luckily, the time is passed by manual labor, and although it's hard and even back breaking with just how heavy he feels, putting his shoulders into it and really pushing the mop takes some of the pressure off his bladder.

 

Even still, the motion comes with its own drawbacks. Working puts pressure on his guts, which in turn bears down in his prostate, and every couple of minutes those heavy waves of pleasure rattle through him and he's taken by a micro-orgasm. Once or twice he nearly loses his balance and only remains upright by sheer force of will.

  
It's the last hour, and he can feel it in his gut, throbbing and hot, a visceral need for release; it's all he can think about now, the thoughts so all consuming that he's little more than an upright animal, growling to contain himself, barely able to hold onto the mop anymore.

 

He tracks Ford like a predator whenever he's on deck, watching him desperately and waiting for him to come over and tell him that it's time, that he's finally lasted the full four hours and he can let go. But Ford keeps just walking past him to tend to his own chores, torturing the poor man with his presence.

 

When Ford's alarm on his watch beeps, he's out on deck with Stan tending to the ropes of their sail, and their eyes lock from across the deck as it occurs to them both at once-- it's time. It's finally, __finally__ time. After four hours of torture, Stan can finally let go. The pressure in his gut is so intense that he nearly pisses himself with anticipation when Ford crosses over to him, and his legs almost give out when Ford grabs him by the crotch.

 

"Get to the edge of deck and take your cock out," Ford commands. "But don't piss yet. You're going to hold it until I make you come. When you come you can finally let it all out."

 

Stan doesn't argue, he doesn't have the capacity to argue, hell he can barely walk as he stumbles over to the railing and with some fumbling, he manages to free his hard, aching cock out of his pants. It's difficult to remember a time today when he hasn't been turned on, and really that had probably been Ford's goal, he realizes that somewhere in the back of his foggy mind.

 

Ford comes up behind him, and the pressure of Ford at his back, knowing that it heralds the coming orgasm that will finally let him come, nearly has Stan shooting off then and there. He hears Ford spit in his hand and then holds up his hand for Stan to do the same, so that when he wraps his hand around his cock with their combined saliva, it's nice and wet. His cock is already dribbling little clear drops every couple of seconds, Stan is so full that he can't hold back the tide completely anymore.

 

"You're so fucking hard, Stanley," Ford rumbles in his ear as his hand sets right into flying over his cock. He doesn't bother with any preamble, he knows how desperately Stan needs right now. He's tortured him enough, now it's time to let him __go__. His other hand rucks up Stan's shirt, bracing in the center of his chest to keep his gravid, trembling brother upright against him. His hand is so tight around Stan's cock that the head warps and squeezes tightly through the ring of his finger with every pass of his hand.  "You've been waiting so long for this... it's going to feel so fucking good. You hear how wet my hand is?"

 

"Oh God . . . Oh God, Stanford . . ." Stan can barely form coherent words, let alone sentences. Normally so talkative, it's usually Stan whispering things that'd make the Devil himself blush, but he's at Ford's mercy now, holding onto the railing for dear life as one leg shakes and his whole body goes rigid against his brother's chest.

 

He makes a noise like a wounded animal, head lulling to the side as the upstroke of Ford's hand brings out a hard squirt of precome that's most definitely equal parts piss at this point. He can't even speak, he's just panting, almost sobbing with how good his brother's hand feels gliding over him.

 

"Do you want me to fuck you after this?" Ford licks a hot stripe up the side of Stan's neck and bites his ear, tugging the lobe between his teeth. "I could return the favor, bend you over the railing and fuck you in half. Your prostate has gotten so much attention from your distended bladder at this point that I could make you __cry__ with one finger."

 

His hand increases in speed, the side of his palm slamming into Stan's full bladder with every stroke down to the base, and squeezing up over the head on every tug forward. There's a steady stream of pre flying off his fingers into the ocean every time his hand jerks forward, droplets splashing soundlessly down into the smooth water, unheard over the slick squelching of Ford's hand.

 

"Please . . . please fuck me." Stan begs, he's practically collapsed into Ford's arms now, his whole body limp, face red and hot. Really, he feels like he should be doing more, but that's always the case when Ford tops. Stanley has a hard time shutting off that part of himself that craves caring for his brother and being in charge of their mutual happiness, it's so hard for him to just switch off, but each tug of Ford's expert hand is driving him to that place.

 

"Th-the bed." Stanley manages to wheeze. "After I go, I want ya to fuck me in the bed . . . I'm tired of standin', Stanford. My legs are shakin'."

 

 

Ford groans at the sound of his brother's begging voice, and he pants into the side of his neck, his fingers digging into his chest as his hand slaps wetly over his cock. "I can do that," he murmurs, growls it right into Stan's ear. "I can lay you out on your side, like you like it-- or would you like to lie on your back? You probably don't even have a preference right now, can you even understand the words coming out of my mouth? I can feel you shaking, you're so close."

 

He bites and sucks a mark into the side of Stan's neck, groaning against the salt of his sweat on his tongue. "Come for me, Stanley. It's time to let go."

 

He'd been working up to some comeback or another, barely able to think, when those growled words fall in his ear and Stanley shouts; his voice echoes over the ocean, not a soul around to hear it, just the two of them, and he comes so hard that he loses the strength in his legs, full weight falling against Ford.

 

With  his brother aiming his cock out into the ocean, Stan's orgasm rends him in half. His head hits Ford's shoulder and he __yells__  until his throat is hoarse as two or three quick jets of come zip into the water at lightning speed and are followed by a stream of piss so strong it sounds like thunder clapping against the water.

  
And he's still coming undone, even as his bladder begins to empty, gut visibly shrinking by the second, he's losing his mind to the feeling of piss shooting through his still-hard cock, and all he can do is yell, completely inconsolable with ecstasy.

 

"Fuck," Ford curses under his breath, watching with an expression of adoration as his brother absolutely comes undone. "Fuck, oh my god, Stanley-- look at you... oh _ _, look at you__..."

 

There are no words to describe how turned on Ford is right now. If only he could go back in time and tell that little boy crying on the beach that one day he would get to experience this, if he just holds out patiently and waits for it. This is the culmination of fifty years of waiting and hiding and secret-keeping, and it's so, so fucking worth it to be able to watch Stan fall apart at the seams like this.

 

And he's __still__ pissing. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised, with the almost gallon and a half of piss that Stan has stored up-- and it seems like Stan's orgasm is still going, given the way he's gone boneless against Ford. The older twin has to hold him aloft, his arm squeezing around his chest just to keep him upright on his feet as the stream flies into the ocean in a dramatic arc, unloading the liters and liters of urine that has been boiling in Stan's belly for hours.

 

After a bit, Stanley stops howling like an injured dog and goes silent, trying desperately to regain his footing as his cock shoots off like a garden hose. He grabs the railing, hands slippery with sweat, but manages to right himself, Ford letting him go though still lingering at his side to make absolutely sure he isn't going to slip and fall.

 

"Oh God . . ." Stan moans hotly, doubling over on the railing as his knees start to shake and he comes again. "Stanford . . . Oh God it feels--I can't even . . . I can't--" whatever he's trying to say is lost as his second orgasm rolls through him, gentler than the first but still so overwhelming.

 

Cold chills run up and down his spine as his body cools rapidly from the loss of fluid, and his teeth visibly chatter, despite the warmth of the day and the fact that he's sweating, coming down from his second orgasm Stan finds himself chilled and spent, still pissing like a fire hose.

 

When the stream finally starts to slow, Stan is left feeling so completely empty that it's almost unpleasant. He's been living with the mounting pressure for so long that left with only the half-digested weight of lunch in his stomach he feels so light he could float away if it weren't for Ford's arms wrapped around him.

 

The slow stream steadily relaxes more and more until it's so thin that it's almost dribbling right onto the deck, and then it finally dissolves into a few dribbles, and then drips, and then finally-- nothing. After a full __minute__  of pissing like he was trying to fill a swimming pool, finally he's completely empty.

 

"You did it," Ford rumbles in his ear. "You actually did it, Stanley... want to get to the bed?"

 

"Please." Stan groans, bracing himself against Ford. He's able to walk, but just barely, he's so wrung out from everything that it's more of a shuffle as his brother leads him to their room. Once there, he doesn't wait for permission, he doesn't even get undressed, he just falls onto the mattress with a soft sigh and lays flat on his back. His belly is still big, bloated from lunch, but he's visibly shrunken now that he's relieved himself.

 

Watching Ford a moment, he swallows thickly, "I feel so empty." he says hoarsely, trying to find the will in his bones to sit up.

 

"Maybe I can do something to help you with that," Ford murmurs, shrugging out of his coat. He's still just wearing the tee shirt, and it strains against his muscles as they flex to remove his pants, dropping them to the ground and stepping out of them so he's left only in his boxer briefs and shirt as he crawls out over his brother.

 

Lovingly he removes Stan's pants, dragging them and his soaked boxers down his legs and he drops them, along with his boots, to the floor with a soft thump. Nude from the waist down, Stan's half-soft cock bobs lightly against his hip with the aftershocks rolling through his system still. Ford leans down and licks once up the bottom of Stan's cock, flooding him for just a moment with sensation before he crawls out properly on top of him to grab their lube from the drawer of their headboard. He snags his pillow on the way back down, and helps to lift Stan's hips so he can wedge it beneath his lower back, but he doesn't immediately touch him.

 

"You were something else today, Stanley," he murmurs, rubbing his palms up and down Stan's thighs. "Did it feel good? Was the torture worth it?"

 

"Yeah it was." Stan situates his hips, getting comfortable on the pillow, back relaxed against the others on the bed. His eyes keep darting around, clearly taking Ford and all his glory in with a hungry gaze, even after all that, he still __wants__  him. Just seeing his muscles flex under that shirt gets his cock interested in the present, again though it's a weak twitch at best.

 

Idly, he rests a hand on his tummy and spreads his bent legs for Ford, revealing his tight hole to him, and it's clear he's embarrassed by showing it by the way he's turned completely red. "I've never had an orgasm last that long--never had as many as I had today, either. All those little ones? Didn't even think that could happen to guys."

 

"Didn't think it could happen? Have you forgotten the fair already?" Ford chuckles as he pops the cap on the lube and presses one wet finger inside his brother. He doesn't immediately zero in on his prostate, both to give him some much-needed relief from the constant pressure on it over the last four hours, and also just to tease him a little bit. "Then again, I did have something inside me all day-- though you sort of did as well. It's like you were smuggling a christmas ham inside you, pressing right up against this spot."

 

As he says it, he twists his hand and jabs his fingertip into his brother's prostate, slamming pleasure up into his teeth. It climbs up his back and squeezes all the air from his lungs, wringing him out into wheezes after just one moment of stimulation.

 

"I didn't forget I just didn't think it could happen just from needin' to piss--! God, Stanford . . ." he tips his hips up, grinding against that single finger. It might be enough to undo him, honestly. Stanley has always been so weak with anal play, too sensitive and always a bit of a pillow prince.

 

"Is that just your finger?" Stan whimpers, his face utterly distraught and red, sweat pouring down his forehead and into his eyes. "It feels so big . . ."

 

"Just my finger," Ford licks his lips. "I'm about to add another one."

 

And he does, scissoring a second finger into his brother. His gaze flicks up to his face every few moments to gauge his reaction, but he's mostly focused on watching the way Stan's rim spreads and opens around his fingers, taking him in to the final knuckle with every stroke of those long digits inside of him. The lube makes sticky noises, bubbling up around Ford's fingers as he screws them inside of Stan, stirring up his insides with twisting strokes that speed up as Stan's body softens to accept them.

 

Under Ford's attentiveness, Stan does start to relax. He spreads his legs a bit wider for Ford, still feeling wholly self conscious about the whole thing but the knot in his tummy is loosening as Ford's fingers pound it apart. He focuses on the feeling, occasionally opening his eyes to watch his brother's face, brows knitted together as he observes Stan's body like it's a science project. But he opens to those two fingers, muscles that were once wound tight fluttering soft and pliant.

 

Ford's jaw works, his teeth clenching and unclenching as he patiently waits for Stan's body to relax enough to take him-- and once satisfied, he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound and strokes another dollop of lube over his cock. Leaning out over his brother, he claims his mouth in a kiss to keep him distracted and comfortable as he guides his cock to Stan's slack hole and presses inside.

 

He lifts his thigh up under one knee, keeping his legs spread properly as he grinds into him, gliding slick and hot as he bottoms out with a groan, and drops his head to Stan's shoulder with a whispered, reverent, "Oh my god..."

 

With Ford stuffed up inside of him, Stan gives a choked groan, his breath catching in his lungs. It feels like he's being split in half by a battering ram, his legs shake and he wraps a heavy arm around Ford's shoulders, trying to get his bearings. "Oh God Stanford, you're so--oh God."

 

"I feel the same," Ford laughs breathlessly into Stan's shoulder as he turns to grind his face against his neck. How long has it been since he topped? Months at least, possibly a year-- they don't often reverse the roles, but it's always spectacular when they do. "Hold on to me, Stanley."

 

It's as much a command as it is a reminder, Stan's limbs sometimes go stupid and uncooperative and just flop beside him to grope the sheets-- but today Ford fully intends to feel him completely. He pulls his hips back and pushes them forward again, steadily picking up speed with each passing moment. His chest remains glued to Stan's, he moves from his belly down and swings his hips with gravity on his side, driving his cock into his brother faster with every handful of thrusts.

 

"Oh god," he moans out, and jams one fist into the blankets to push himself up so he can hover on top of Stan, his toes digging into the sheets for leverage as he fucks down into his brother. "Oh god-- fuck, Stanley--"

 

Shaking hands pull his own glasses off, followed by Ford's and Stan cranes his neck up to smash their lips together. As his brother had asked, he's wrapped his arms around him, but perhaps a little too tightly because he squeezes until he feels a pop, and realizes that he'd been holding on far too hard.

 

"Sweet __Moses__ , Sixer you're rippin' me in half . . ." It almost sounds like a complaint, and Ford takes it that way but when he starts to jerk back, Stanley clamps a hand down on the back of his neck and drags him down, at the same time getting leverage under his heels by digging them into the bed, forcing Ford's cock back down to the hilt. Stan pants wordlessly for a few breaths before he mutters; "If you pull outta me right now I swear to all that is holy I'll hit ya so hard you'll see stars, now __fuck me.__ "

 

He initiates, and Ford follows, their bodies moving and picking up speed as Ford rams into him with renewed force, and Stanley hooks a leg around Ford, the foot of the other digging into the bed, spreading himself at a wide angle so he can take all his brother has to offer. He keeps a hold on the back of Ford's neck, though the grip goes lax along with Stan's mouth, his eyes glassy and lost in the pure bliss of finally being fucked after hours of torture.

 

Ford slips into comfortable subservience, obeying his brother without question the way he always does. Even being on top like this, even being in the role of fucker instead of fucked, he still listens to every command his brother gives. And though part of him kind of wants to be hit, a larger part of him desperately doesn't want to stop-- so he doesn't. He leans out on his elbow beside Stan't head and snaps his hips down against his brother's, bouncing his body on the bed as he fills him with every heavy, hard stroke.

 

"Oh god," he moans, his mouth opening against Stan's shoulder, pressed up tight against him, leaned into him, absorbing his bulk and heat and comfort. After hours of taking control, it's so effortless for him to just obey, and he fucks into Stan like he's dying, his other arm coiling around behind his brother's thick waist to hold on for dear life as their hips clap noisily together every time Ford's cock splits Stan open.

 

"Oh God--Oh shhh-it. Stanford, I"m not gonna last much longer . . . fuck me through it if I come, I wanna feel ya--inside. I gotta . . ."

 

Stan uses the force of his bent legs to slam back into Ford on every other downstroke, so that Ford barely has a second to breathe before he's rammed right back in. And God, somehow Stan forgets every single time his brother fucks him just how __good__  it feels to have his prostate battered, but when Ford's head slides into position, tagging that spot, Stan loses his breath. He can't even hold himself together anymore, he's just a writhing, grunting idiot under his brother.

 

"Ah God...shit . . . shit--SHIT!"  It takes only a couple of passes before Stan comes apart at the seams. He __shouts__  into the open air, his arm coiling around Ford's neck, dragging him down against his soft belly and arched chest, and Stan slams his hips up, taking Ford as deep as he can go, and just rides the waves out, his body clamping down and pulsing around Ford's cock.

 

Ford does exactly as Stan asks, he fucks him right through it even as Stan's body does its level best to buck him right off like a bronco. He grips behind Stan's waist to keep pinned to him and lays his head on his shoulder, moaning openly into his neck as his hips nail against his brother's, fucking him for all he's worth.

 

He isn't far behind himself, after only another half minute of thrusting his pleasure crests and he spills over, filling Stan with every stroke, his hips slamming home with every hard muscle spasm. He feels absolutely boneless, crushed in his brother's tight embrace, and sags against him when the pleasure finally subsides, trembling in his arms.

 

"Oh... oh my god..." he mumbles hoarsely against Stan's neck. "Fuck, Stanley..."

 

Unresponsive for a moment, Stan can only muster a pained grunt, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath he draws. With Ford pressed up against his prostate, he comes one more time, but it's so weak it could hardly constitute a true orgasm, and the only evidence of it is the way he moans weakly and gush of precome leaks over his bloated gut.

 

HIs hand moves from the back of Ford's neck to his hair, and Stanley cranes his neck down to kiss his brother wetly on the mouth. His body has gone completely slack and soft, accepting Ford completely.

 

Ford pulls out with a wet squelch and rolls over off of his brother with a moan, dropping down beside him. He shivers with leftover ecstasy, completely satisfied and completely exhausted.

 

"Wow," he murmurs, before dragging his tired body up onto his side so he can drape an arm around Stan's belly. "That was.... all of it.... you know?"

 

Stan growls low in his chest, both content with the buzzing in his skull and frustrated by how  _ _empty__  he feels. He looks down at Ford, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and kisses his forehead, "I love you but--  ** **what?**** "

 

Ford just gives a delirious giggle and presses his face into Stan's shoulder with a muffled, "Yeah."

 

Stan laughs and rolls over, wrapping Ford up in his arms and squeezes him so tight that something pops, "You're an idiot."

 

"I'm your idiot," Ford mumbles, rubbing his face into Stan's shoulder with a helpless, drunken giggle.

 

"You are--all mine." Stan growls in his ear, nuzzling down against his neck and closing his eyes. He inhales Ford's scent and relaxes against his body, content to just hold him for awhile until they both decide to get up, or otherwise fall asleep. There's still a lot of work to be done on the boat, but surely a nap won't hurt anything.


End file.
